


Paradigm Shift

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMFs, Baddies, For The Fluff!, Getting to Know Each Other, John Watson is a stripper, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Not Canon Compliant, Out of Character, Plot Twists, Sex Lessons, Strangers to Lovers, Violence for later chapters, Virgin Sherlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 101,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is the world's only consulting detective. He's also a virgin, and has staunchly remained that way. One night he's on a case like normal but he sees someone who after a single glance turns everything Sherlock thought he knew about himself completely around. Enter one John Watson, doctor, soldier....stripper?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> The inception of this idea began thusly:
> 
> 221B_Ladybug: I was wondering if you'd write a virgin Sherlock fic where John is like a pornstar or famous stripper and he and Sherlock get together. :) thanks for taking the time to read and respond to my email
> 
> I really liked this idea and totally lost it among the huge amount of requests I simultaneously received at that time. I thought about it, and began it with the full intention of making it a John Is A Stripper story but then fluff happened and yeah.
> 
> I hope you like it.

Long fingers tapped nervously on the bar before stilling and calmly wrapping around a short fat glass of something that was practically evaporating right in front of him. The glass was lifted and brought up to a pair of full, shapely, Cupid-bow lips that allowed the potent brew to slide over his tongue. Sherlock Holmes was trying to fortify himself but he wasn’t sure it would work, at least, it hadn’t so far.

This was the third night he’d come to this place. The first night had been entirely by accident. He’d followed someone in but it turned out his lead was wrong and he was going nowhere with his current case. Just as the curly haired detective was turning his long lean body toward the exit music blared from the stage and a curtain lifted.

Sherlock witnessed _an_ _angel_.

Soft golden light streamed from behind the stage and outlined the small fit body of a man with sandy blonde hair and dark blue eyes. He was wearing only a pair of very tight shorts, and a pair of straps that crossed over a well-muscled chest and held on a pair of feathered wings that spanned the man for nearly a meter on each side. Sherlock found that he’d stopped breathing. Never once in his life had he ever been so affected by the mere sight of someone.

Without realising it Sherlock had drifted toward the stage that night, mouth dry, breath stuttering and shallow as he watched the small man dance. The music was loud and crudely suggestive but the man made it work for him, his torso and limbs catching the music and owning it. Sherlock gasped with everyone else when they realised the painted star on his shoulder outlined a very real and quite savage looking scar. Eyes darting here and there Sherlock’s head tilted the tiniest bit. _Body make-up to even out an uneven tan gained by working in the sun while clothed. Hard body, fit from use, and not from normal exercise. Skin rough on face and hands, exposed to extreme conditions over a long period of time. Multiple scars, all muted by the body-paint. Hair neatly cut but not short, clearly allowed to grow out from a style that was much more tactical._ Cupid-bow lips spoke the word _soldier_ just as the dancer’s moves brought him right in front of Sherlock, their eyes meeting as the syllables hung in the air between them.

 _He’d heard._ Sherlock realised the dancer had _heard_ him say something and now it seemed that the dance which had been for the crowd was now all for _him_. The small man was a beautiful creature and all the repressed urges that the detective kept firmly under control began to make themselves known. He could not help staring, his gaze growing hot. The soldier was a _sublime_ animal, comfortable in his own skin, predatory yet gentle. The dancer’s hand gripped the pole and Sherlock exhaled sharply as he simply lifted himself until he was at a sharp angle, and then the dance _really_ began.

 _The soldier had been wounded, seriously wounded_. Sherlock analysed his movements, which, while very impressive, still told the detective much. _His left shoulder didn’t rotate properly and the muscles were bound and stiff with scar tissue_. There was a problem with his leg but Sherlock couldn’t identify any debilitating scars. _Psychosomatic then, easily dealt with_. Sherlock wondered why a soldier would dance in such a place, wondered how he’d overcome his trauma, and still be brave enough to display himself this way. The crowd was mostly appreciative but there were coarse comments still being shouted out by men and women alike, rude and disgusting suggestions. The soldier ignored them, smiling at all who threw their money his way. Occasionally he danced to the edge of the stage and a lucky few stuffed folding cash into his very low waistline. For the first time, Sherlock wished he didn’t pay for everything exclusively with his cards. _He’d withdraw some money as soon as possible_. Sherlock was positive at least ten different people had touched the soldier inappropriately, and for some reason that made him feel…strange. He fled.

Sherlock was determined to put the soldier out of his mind. _He was on a case anyway, he had leads to find and then follow. He didn’t have time for soldiers, angelic or otherwise_. Ignoring the sad cries from the region in his pants Sherlock forced his mind to concentrate on the problem at hand and to put aside the desire for obviously retired military personnel.

The very next afternoon Sherlock was shocked when he spotted the soldier at Bart’s. He almost didn’t recognise the man fully-clothed in a rather plain and frumpy jumper, and blue trousers, but he was certain it was him. The sandy-haired man looked angry as he pushed his way past the heavy glass doors, and out onto the street. If Sherlock had not _absolutely_ needed to catch Molly Hooper in the morgue before she left for the day he would have given chase. Instead, he sighed and went about his business.

That night Sherlock wondered why the soldier had been at the hospital. Had he been injured in some way? Not admitting that his curiosity was more than just idle wonderings Sherlock left his flat for the night to prowl the streets of London in search of his quarry. Once again the trail led to the bar once more and Sherlock sighed but paid his way in.

The soldier wasn’t on and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, scoping out the crowd with a practised eye, searching for a heavy-set man with a deformed foot. All of that was forgotten when music blared and the curtain began to climb. Then Sherlock found he had tossed back his drink and walked toward the stage. He wasn’t disappointed. Like the night before the soldier was wearing angel wings but his eyes were hard instead of twinkling and Sherlock wondered anew what troubled the man. His dance was well practised and sensual but Sherlock could see his heart wasn’t into it, not like it had been the night before, at least it wasn’t until the soldier caught sight of Sherlock.

The detective grew dry-mouthed and breathless a second time as the soldier’s dance became heated and filled with promise. Hoots and catcalls from the audience grew deafening but Sherlock ignored it all, his attention fully fixed on the small man. The soldier was amazing, every muscle in his body tight and perfectly honed, waxed free of all hair which Sherlock regretted but what a _feast_. Suddenly he imagined the soldier spread out in front of him like a meal and he blinked rapidly. _What was this madness? He didn’t think of such things!_ Just then a movement caught his eye. The man he had been chasing was slipping out the back. The soldier’s eyes followed Sherlock’s and grew hard again but Sherlock barely noticed. _The game was on_.

Case solved, the first meal in days consumed, and a long day’s sleep went by before the detective’s mind wandered back to the sandy-haired dancer, those rock-hard muscles, that barely suppressed killer in angel wings. Lying in bed Sherlock felt himself grow aroused, his flesh hardening and with a shout, he jumped up and nearly ran to the shower to stand under the coldest water he could manage until the flames were thoroughly doused. _No. He couldn’t. Not after all these years._ Sherlock wasn’t going to abandon his experiment, not after an entire lifetime of devotion to his cause.

Sherlock firmly believed he didn’t need sex. He’d been horrified as a youth when embarrassing night-emissions told him the horrible truth. Sherlock learned that he was not in control _of his own body_. That very same day a young Sherlock vowed to overcome that weakness and devoted himself to pure thought and reason. Puzzles were the only thing that mattered, puzzles and music. His transport remained troublesome and so he turned to chemistry to subdue his urges.

Mycroft, well, the entire family, had been horrified with his addictions but somehow Sherlock had justified them in the name of his strange quest for control. It took years before he admitted that the drugs were the things that ruled him and with the same implacable will Sherlock turned his back on them and cleaned his life up.

That had been ages ago. Now there was only puzzles and music again and for a while that had contented him but a soldier? Could the mere sight of a beautiful man be enough for Sherlock to willingly discard his lifelong celibacy? _No. Never_. Sherlock was derisive of the notion. _Surely he could overcome this temptation as thoroughly as he’d overcome everything else? A soldier wasn’t heroin or cocaine. He was a pretty package and an empty vessel. Most people were, it wasn’t their fault. They were nearly mindless with everyday routines and order, never straying, never thinking, merely existing_. _He wasn’t the least bit interested in giving in to his urges for any of them. Sherlock was beyond such fleshly urges_.

As a scientist, it was, of course, necessary to test this hypothesis and he prepared himself with assurance. Sherlock had donned many disguises in his time but he’d discovered that less was more, and with skill, he made himself presentable. His shirt was thin but richly coloured, a deep plum that clung to his lean lines and made his every move sinuous. Deciding he’d best just go with a _proper_ club look Sherlock selected black trousers that were nearly as well-fitted as his shirt. They were too fitted for pants, which was fine with him, the silk lining inside was pleasing and no one would ever know he wasn’t entirely dressed anyway. This was all for show.

Hair primped and face shaved close Sherlock dabbed a very tiny amount of extremely expensive aftershave on and glared at himself in the mirror, “ _You_ are above this.” he hissed. “ _Look_ and _do not_ touch. Your hands go _nowhere_ near him.”

The area around his groin was broadcasting sad messages again _but that was the point of tonight_ , to regain mastery over their desires. Some _random_ naked soldier was not undoing nearly four decades of dedication, not over _Sherlock Holmes_ , the world’s _only_ consulting detective! With a sniff, he quit the flat, leaving with a jaunty toss of his scarf after dramatically swirling his coat on. No one would ever know how hard he’d practised making that seem careless. Arrogantly he caught a cab directly to the club and strolled inside.

His first mistake was the drink. _He’d ordered the most expensive item available, just for the look of it but the crowd was unnerving him. That was unusual. Suddenly he realised he had no idea when the soldier danced. He might not even be on tonight_. _Why was he doing this again?_ Taking a deep drink Sherlock then had to struggle to retain his calm as the fiery liquid carved a path to his stomach and began to spread everywhere. Now here he was again, standing in front of the stage with a glass in his hand, his heart pounding in his chest, and complete puzzlement over why he was doing this. The music began and the curtain lifted and Sherlock forgot the entire world.

The soldier was _glorious_. He looked furious, his face blank and to anyone else, entirely expressionless but Sherlock knew better. He took in the man’s appearance. They’d dressed him as a doctor, a very minimalistic doctor but the stethoscope was a dead giveaway. Sherlock’s brow’s furrowed. _Why would pretend to be a doctor be any more offensive than being an angel with gigantic artificial wings?_ Suddenly Sherlock gasped and then, he was as furious as the soldier. _The man had been an actual doctor! An army doctor!_ Sherlock’s mind whirled into gear. _The soldier had been honourably discharged due to his injury but there would be consequences. Even a medical man would have trouble obtaining work if he were suffering from something more debilitating than a bad shoulder. That’s why he’d stormed out of the hospital. He’d applied for work and had been rejected. Post-traumatic stress. That would explain his leg. How_ dare _this club prostitute his honour like that? The man had gone to war for his country!_

Entirely outraged Sherlock reached into his wallet and pulled out a sheaf of large bills he’d remembered to go to the bank for. The glare did not ebb even as he scattered them at the feet of the man on the stage. The soldier stopped dancing and gaped at the riches in front of him, “Your _set_ is over.” growled Sherlock jerking his head toward the dressing-room door.

The soldier’s eyes were still hard but his nod was firm. With a bit of a hard drop, he got to one knee and gathered up what he’d earned. Rising to his feet he nodded to Sherlock one more time and marched himself away. Sherlock drank in the sight of his toned and sturdy body and wondered what the hell he was up to. Instead of making his way to the back he forced himself to return to the bar and finish his drink, sipping the fume-laden liquid carefully. The burn was just enough to distract him and he managed to remain in place for nearly twenty minutes.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Sherlock turned, entirely startled. He was now mere inches away from the most incredible blue eyes he’d ever seen. They were deep and surprisingly warm, intelligent and fearless, “Two of the same.” said the soldier, his eyes not leaving Sherlock’s for an instant, “We’ll be at the staff table.”

Sherlock found his hand being taken. The soldier’s grip was firm and sure, he pulled Sherlock through the crowd and into a curtained booth far in the back. Sherlock was seated on a large bench while the small man twitched the curtains most of the way closed, “They’ll be here with the drinks. We won’t be bothered after that.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “I don’t follow.”

“Well you paid for my time, what is it that you want?” The man seemed poised, at ease but ready to move in any way required. Sherlock’s mouth dried and he couldn’t help but take in every detail. _169 centimetres, genetic predilection for early greying, wounded arm was his dominant hand but ambidextrous, not fluid but still capable. Incredible._ What will-power the man must have to have overcome so very much and still stand tall and unbroken despite the obvious cracks. _Gambling likely, drinking, most definitely. He smelled so good, even with all the cosmetics_. Against his will, Sherlock felt himself grow warmer.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” asked Sherlock abruptly. He needed to take control of the situation but the soldier wasn’t fazed.

“Amazing. How’d you do that? Afghanistan by the way.” Sherlock knew he was blushing because the soldier sounded so… _sincere_. He was _actually_ amazed _and_ appreciative! “John, by the way, John Watson.”

Sherlock sat up straight, “Sherlock Holmes.” He had no time to say more. A smirking woman with a tray delivered their drinks. Winking at John she left, twitching the curtains the rest of the way closed on her way out. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

John didn’t seem to be listening. He handed Sherlock his drink and sipped his own, eyeing the detective up and down. “I think it is.” John set his drink down on a small table and came to stand in front of Sherlock. Pushing his glass-bearing hand aside Sherlock was startled when the soldier sat astride Sherlock’s knees, their bellies nearly touching, “ _I_ get to touch and _you_ do not. Those are the rules.”

Sherlock was shaking his head, “No. I do not do this. This is not what I’m here for.”

“Sure, that’s what they all say or so I’m told. You’re my first customer but don’t worry. I’ve been told I’m very skilled.” John kissed Sherlock and it was the most shocking experience of the detective’s life. _The lips pressed to his were thin, spare, but also experienced_. Sherlock reflexively opened his mouth when he felt John’s tongue swipe across his lower lip and was further surprised at the decadently lascivious feeling he enjoyed. _He had no idea kissing felt so nice!_ The soldier hummed appreciatively as he pulled away, “I had to, I’m sorry, that _mouth_ though.” The soldier took another kiss from an unresisting Sherlock. _John was amazing_. Sherlock was melting from the inside out, his hands reaching up to cup the man’s face, “No touching.” barked the soldier and Sherlock’s hands dropped down. “Good boy.” Sherlock felt the weird heat deep inside him grow hotter.

“Despite our current circumstances, this is really _not_ what I came for.” Sherlock wasn’t sure _why_ he had come though.

“Oh?” the soldier was cheeky, “I really, really think it is, and I think your body is agreeing with me.” Sherlock glanced down and flushed deeply. He was already partially erect and so was the soldier. His tiny pants hid nothing, he was thick and weighty looking, and Sherlock realised he was swallowing hard. John made another soft appreciative sound as he examined Sherlock blatantly, “ _That_ looks like a lot of fun. First things first.”

John reached behind Sherlock and suddenly music filled the air. A slow and sultry song came on and with a start, Sherlock finally clued in. _John was about to give him a lap dance! He was going to try to get Sherlock off!_ “No!” he declared firmly, “ _I_ do _not_ do _this_ … _ever_.” The music went off and John got off his lap, a quizzical look on his face, “I have _never_ indulged, I do not plan to, and that’s _not_ why I am here.”

“Why are you here then?” John’s eyes grew hard again, “What do you want?” _Suddenly Sherlock was very aware of how dangerous John was, the man practically radiated cautionary warning. This was someone who had clearly survived active duty for a long time, he wouldn’t need weapons in order to hurt Sherlock if he really wanted to_. Sherlock was a masterful fighter and he was momentarily concerned that his skills would be required should this go wrong. John was suspicious, rightly so. _He wouldn’t accept a tepid excuse and Sherlock himself had no idea why he was there, what could he say to assuage the man’s concerns?_

Sherlock’s brain went into overdrive. He examined his life, tried to factor John into it, and came up with a solution almost instantly, “I’m looking for a partner, someone to work with. I need someone who can act as a bodyguard as well as a general dogsbody. There’s a bit of undercover work involved, I need someone who can be who they aren’t for periods of time. I have a spare room in my flat you can use if you need your own place, and each contract we complete will be shared equally between us.” _What in the world was he saying? He worked alone, always alone, alone is what protected him!_

“You don’t even know me.” John’s eyes stayed hard. “Why the fuck would I _move in_ with a trick? What sort of work are you talking about?”

Sherlock flinched and John’s expression grew chagrined. “I did not come here to _purchase_ your sexual services! I merely wished to end that _farce_ of a dance. I am a _consulting detective_ , I’m the only one in the world. I solve the most difficult crimes, and occasionally I assist the Met with their investigations.”

John looked entirely intrigued for a second before the suspicion returned, “Why _me_?”

“Why not _you_?” shot back Sherlock instantly, “What would you rather do, dance _here_ forever, or come work with me _solving crimes_?” Sherlock couldn’t explain that he could bloody well _smell_ the sweat combined with makeup on the soldier and it was making his mouth water. He couldn’t tell John that he could still feel the weight of him on his lap, or that his damnable penis was still partially erect.

“What about sex? I like to fuck.” Sherlock sat back, somewhat shocked. _That had been very blunt and he realised he was blushing furiously_. John was looking him up and down with open appreciation, “Wait. What do you mean _you’ve never indulged_?” Suddenly the soldier’s eyes were filled with curiosity and Sherlock could not help but respond to that.

Somewhat tersely he explained, “My body is merely transport. It does as _I_ will it to do and I decided a long time ago that sex was not necessary, not for me. I’ve never desired it and I’ve never once done anything that distracts me from what is really important, the quest for knowledge.” It made perfect sense to him. He focused all his energy on the acquisition and understanding of information _. The more he learned the better he was able to untangle seemingly impossible mysteries because of the layers of information he could discern in a single glance._ He rattled off a series of deductions he’d made about the man in front of him, noting his wounds, his dual if currently unused careers, and even touched on his weapons skills based on what he recollected of John’s fingertips when they’d briefly touched him.

John looked astonished. The soldier blinked for a long minute before shaking his head a tiny bit, his dark blue eyes growing darker still and he simply said, “Amazing.” one more time before striding across the room to deliver a blistering kiss, tongue and all, that left Sherlock in a state he’d never experienced before, full arousal. John let his fingers trail along Sherlock’s jawline before he stood back to speak, “You are _amazing._ Take me home with you. Give me one night, just _one_ night with you, gods, _please_. You’re missing _so_ much. If you really do what you do you need to understand sex, it’s a primal human need. If you really want my help give me that, and I’ll move right on in and do whatever needs doing.”

Sherlock’s mind wasn’t functioning normally. If anything his thoughts were whirling faster and clearer than they had ever done before. _Why was that? What had just happened?_ The case he was working on suddenly fell together, “The staircase!” Sherlock stood up, absently re-arranging himself, and buttoning his coat firmly closed, “Get dressed John. We have less than an hour to catch a killer.”

“Right.” John left instantly while Sherlock tapped furiously away on his mobile, texting Lestrade and his incompetent officers. By the time he was done John was back, his face hastily washed but now dressed in faded jeans, a warm jumper, and heavily soled shoes. He looked harmless, adorable even, but Sherlock did not forget the sense of danger that John had been capable of even when he’d been dressed only in a pair of white pants with a big red cross on them. Sherlock felt warm inside, very warm, “Ready.” reported the soldier.

The night was filled with madness. Sherlock swept onto the scene like a storm and he appreciated the way John stayed close to his back, competent, calm, waiting. The man was a living weapon and he clearly was accustomed to being very protective. At three in the morning, both of them were racing down the streets of London after the heavy-set man Sherlock had spotted earlier, his long legs bearing him quickly but John was surprisingly fast and kept up. He was also astonishingly strong as well as savage, he had their suspect on the ground and bleeding only a few minutes after they caught up. Sherlock beamed at him and enjoyed the devilish grin he got in return. With a grin that bordered on feral, he spoke, “Very well. One night.”

 _What was he saying? He hadn’t thought this through, hadn’t thought of it at all! How had John convinced him so easily? Many had tried, men and women of all shapes sizes and backgrounds had done their best to tempt Sherlock and none had even remotely succeeded. He didn’t know John and now he was bringing him back to Baker Street to engage in intercourse?_ John’s smile became fond and his smile reassuring, “You won’t regret it, I swear.”

“We’ll see.” Sherlock wasn’t capable of agreeing further. He was in shock now, striding confidently away, buttoning his coat authoritatively, and cinching his scarf close to his long neck. He was cool and in control but the smile on John’s face told him that the soldier was not fooled. Sherlock blushed, “Chinese? I know an all-night place.” _Delay delay delay!_

“ _Starving_.” Sherlock’s blush heated up. John definitely sounded hungry but obviously not for food. Sherlock blathered on about how to identify a good restaurant and John made appreciative sounds and kept smiling. Sherlock was sure he was going to jump right out of his skin except that the soldier began chattering away about this and that, listening attentively to Sherlock’s answers as they made their way easily side by side down the ill-lit streets. Their pace was natural, their bodies falling into rhythm with one another unconsciously, and Sherlock relaxed.

Dinner was entertaining even if it was a great deal to consume so early in the morning. All night restaurants weren’t common unless you knew where to look, but Sherlock knew London better than anyone. The conversation flowed easily between them. John’s words were heavily laden with compliments and as far as Sherlock could discern they were all very genuine. He blushed more than once but John’s eyes remained warm and interested. He ended up eating everything, fortune cookies included, quickly becoming addicted to the sound of John’s rather unmanly giggle. It was delightful and made him feel joyful. The stroll back to the flat was every bit as enjoyable as the meal and they were upstairs with the door shut before he got nervous again, “Tea?” asked John with the same warm smile.

Sherlock sighed with relief, “The kitchen is right over here.” John followed him a bit closer than was necessary but only set to helping himself to the kettle and everything else he needed. Sherlock sat at the table and half-heartedly cleared a spot, self-consciously noting that he’d ensured that John would be seated as closely as possible, “Thank you.” he said at long last, accepting a proffered cup. He sipped and nearly gasped. _This was the most perfectly brewed cup of tea he’d ever had!_ John had managed to stir in exactly the right amount of sugar and cream as well! _Amazing, the soldier was amazing!_

“This place is incredible.” said John warmly but his eyes remained on Sherlock, “It looks like I’ll fit in here perfectly.” _Sherlock was not blushing again, he was not!_ Innuendo hung in the air but John’s smile stayed warm and friendly despite his words, “Show me around?”

Instead of a tour, the soldier kissed Sherlock again right outside his bedroom door, another deep and passionate kiss, just like the one he’d stolen at the club, “That mouth.” he sighed against Sherlock’s lips, “You’re incredible, do you know that? Brilliant, beautiful, _delicious_.”

Sherlock’s conflicted mind raced. _One night. It was one night. For science. The facts. It was logical. John was right. Many crimes involved sex to some degree._ With a flash of irritation, he thought of three separate cases he might have solved early enough to prevent the deaths that followed had he known a little more about how primal urges played into the events that had transpired. “Am I?” he said instead.

“Scrumptious,” breathed the soldier, his voice soft yet heavy with intent, “I wanted you the first time I laid eyes on you. You are _gorgeous_ , a fallen angel.”

Sherlock felt light-headed and strange. _No one ever said things like that to him_. His insides were heating up and his entire body felt like it was arching toward the warmth of the man in front of him, “I feel dizzy.”

“It’s okay, love. Come on, open the door.” just like that John switched gears, and urged Sherlock toward the bed, “Lay down sweetheart.” The endearments seem to come naturally to the man, and they sank into Sherlock’s psyche like the most addictive drug he’d ever experienced, “Oh, look at you, my beautiful treasure.” John was kissing his face, soft little kisses over his eyelids, his cheekbones, the very tip of his nose, and finally on his lips, “Like honey.” whispered John.

“I don’t know what to do,” confessed Sherlock. Of course, he knew about sex _technically_. He knew where everything should go, and what everything was, but _why_ and _how_ were beyond him, “I have no idea.”

“Oh my god you’re perfect.” John was nearly moaning now, his eyes nearly black with desire, “ _Untouched_ , so lovely, so amazing. Please love, you clever fantastic creature you. I want to have you, I want to show you what you’re missing. Let me teach you.” John was nearly begging and Sherlock swallowed hard once more. _John was a soldier, a traveller, older. He’d be experienced. He’d_ know _things._

Sherlock’s mind latched onto that idea. _What things? What kinds of things would a seasoned warrior be able to teach him in the course of a night? Techniques? Positions? There would be a flood of sensory data he’d never collected before. What would that be like? What would it be like to engage his transport the way it wanted to be?_ John smelled so good and Sherlock could still taste him on his lips. Suddenly there was no more hesitation. “Yes.”

“Thank you.” _John was so sincere! It should have sounded ridiculous, the near-formality of his request, or his polite response to Sherlock’s answer_. John was obviously a gentleman, at least, a bit. A wicked smile spread across the soldier’s face that was the complete opposite from the innocent tone of voice he used to ask, “What kinds of noises do you think you’ll make, sweetheart?”

One devastating question and every muscle in Sherlock’s body ceased to work. Completely unable to move he simply lay there, eyes wide and fixed onto John’s, helpless to resist or direct anything. John was clearly transfixed. When he spoke his voice was filled with wonder, “A dream come true, that’s what you are. Where did you come from? Skin like cream, that hair, those astonishing eyes, that mouth, that body. I had no idea what beauty really was but look at you, such perfection.”

Sherlock was speechless. _John thought he was what?_ Sherlock swallowed hard. _He was anything but beautiful_. With much practice, he’d gained some grace over the years but he knew he was ungainly, over-large, colourless, and the much agreed upon view of his appearance was _attractive at a distance_ which is where most people preferred him, even without taking his looks into account. “I’m really not.”

“Don’t tell me what to appreciate.” said John sharply, “I’ll make up my own mind, thank you very much. It just so happens that every bit of you is everything _I’ve_ ever fantasised about finding and never have. Right now I’m in heaven, absolute heaven. I can’t wait _but_ I don’t want to start because it will be over too soon. I want to savour every moment for as long as I can but I only have _one night_ , which is a shame because it’s nearly dawn and I’d like to do this properly.”

“Properly?” _They were going to shag were they not? John was going to presumably penetrate him and do whatever it was he needed to do to bring them both to orgasm. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? To teach Sherlock about sex? How long could that take? Surely a single night was sufficient. Three nights would be best for comparative values but one night should be more than enough_. “What do you mean _properly_?”

John smiled and kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose, “For one I wouldn’t have rushed you straight to bed. I would have taken you out for a bit, let you get to know me.”

“Date? You want to date?” Sherlock was entirely confused now. _Why was continued social interaction necessary for copulation?_

“Yeah, why not? You asked me to move in with you during our very first conversation but you’re floored when I suggest dating?” his expression was gently amused.

 _Well, John did have somewhat of a point there._ “I thought you just wanted sex.”

“No, I was taking what I could get, and sex for one night with you is better than never having sex with you ever. We haven’t even had it yet and I know that for a fact. I’d take it easy, let you get used to one thing after another until you were ready to appreciate everything I want to do with you.” John’s voice was matter-of-fact.

 _They were already in bed together. Was sex happening or not? Did he want sex to happen?_ Sherlock thought for a minute. He wanted _something_ to happen, but what that was he could not discern, and _that_ inability decided him right then and there. “Then we’ll date. Clearly, I need to learn these things. I don’t understand anything you want and that is troublesome.”

John was grinning hugely, “I’ll move in tomorrow.”

“What about tonight?” _Sex? No sex? What!_

“Tonight _we cuddle_ ,” replied John decisively. “Have you ever cuddled anyone?”

“What the devil is _cuddling_?” demanded Sherlock. _He felt he should be outraged for some reason. The activity sounded infantile_.

“Oh bloody hells, you really do know nothing.” Sherlock found his transport being rearranged until his head was on the soldier’s rather firm shoulder so all he could see was his neck and chest. The firmly muscled expanse was more attractive than he might have expected. A discrete glance further downward made him feel both awkward and relieved. John was partially erect, still wearing his pants, but very obviously aroused, if controlling himself. “See? This is nice isn’t it?”

Sherlock scowled. _What was nice about this?_ He was laying on one arm, and he didn’t know what to do with his legs. He could really smell John too and that was a bit dizzying. _He was so primal._ Sherlock felt gangly and out-of-place. “What now?”

John shushed him and then Sherlock was asked to close his eyes. Gentle fingers carded through his curls, rubbing carefully against his scalp, working their way carefully down to his neck, and even occasionally over his ears. It was soft and tranquil, Sherlock felt like he was filled with light from head to toe. _He had no idea something like this could feel so amazing._ It was tender and careful, relaxing and soothing. Eventually, Sherlock realised he was slumped against John, their bodies somehow meeting so that he was comfortable and warm. John’s fingers were now lazily sweeping up and down his back, toying with the bumps along his spine, but always returning to his hair before trailing away to languorously continue exploring. “Now my love, we sleep.”

 _My love_. John didn’t even know Sherlock but there they were, cuddling in bed. _My love_. The words sank deeper than all the others and buried themselves into the very foundations of Sherlock’s mind palace as he slipped into slumber. _My love_.


	2. Fundamental Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promises have been made and now a new era is dawning in the existence of one Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.

Sherlock was woken the next morning when John rubbed his bum in a very familiar way before saying, “I’m using the loo, be right back my angel.” Consciousness fully returned when a stubble-rough face pressed a kiss against his cheek before the warmth at his side disappeared. He lay there and felt alone. The bed felt over-large and empty, a sensation he’d never experienced before no matter where he’d slept.

Sherlock opened his eyes finally and looked at the clock. _It was eleven in the morning! He’d slept the entire night away in John’s arms!_ Sherlock blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night for any reason other than sheer exhaustion because he hadn’t slept in days, or because he’d finally gotten high enough to pass out. He felt alert and clear-minded, focused and well-rested. He rolled over a bit and inhaled. John’s scent was as delectable on the pillows as it was directly from his skin. Sherlock got up and pulled on a robe. John was just leaving the bathroom, “Good morning John.” He felt awkward. _How did mornings begin when you picked up a stranger and began cohabitating during your first date?_

His confusion clearly showed. “Here.” John tugged Sherlock close and pulled his head down, “Good morning, love.” John kissed Sherlock’s mouth lightly. He tasted of mint. “I used some of your mouthwash, I hope that’s alright.”

“I probably need some.” _Morning-breath!_ Sherlock had never had to consider that before. He pulled back, suddenly shy. John was having none of it, and merely rocked up onto his tip-toes and took another kiss, “John?”

“I’m making tea. Is there anything to eat?” John patted Sherlock’s bum and rubbed it again before wandering off to the kitchen, now wearing Sherlock’s too-long spare robe. Sherlock couldn’t wait and darted into the loo, locking the door for the first time since he’d moved in. After he was done he scrupulously washed up, carefully cleaning his teeth, and washing his face. Tying his robe tighter Sherlock took a deep breath and went to the kitchen.

 _John was cooking!_ Glancing over his shoulder the soldier lit up when he saw Sherlock standing there, “I made tea, yours is right there.” The robe clung to his body in the most eye-catching way. John’s bottom was so appealing. _What would it feel like in his hands? John patted Sherlock's behind several times. Would that be acceptable to do in return or would that mean something more than he was prepared to deal with?_ Sherlock had to force his gaze to remain on the soldier’s face.

“Thank you, John.” A large mug was steaming on the counter. Sherlock picked it up and sipped it. It took all his self-control not to sigh blissfully. _Again, perfection_. Despite his long-studied inclinations, he found himself leaning down and kissing John’s cheek, “Wonderful.”

John grinned and kept cooking. He had a lot of things in a pan and he was stirring it vigorously. He kept reaching into Sherlock’s spice cabinet and adding dashes of things until the kitchen was filled with rich odours. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m always experimenting with food.”

 _Experiments?_ Sherlock blinked and looked carefully at the soldier. Sure enough, John had taken a bit of everything edible from the dubious contents of the fridge and cupboards and had concocted an elaborate _something_ out of it. As he watched John cracked four eggs into a hole he made in the middle of his vegetable mix and while they cooked he made toast, “My mum loved to do this. As long as it had eggs on the side she’d say it was breakfast, it didn’t matter what the other stuff was. She was a great cook, I miss her. I noticed you were incubating something in some of the eggs, I put those in a different bowl. You know you really shouldn’t keep your experiments with your food.”

He blinked and didn’t know how to respond. _John recognised that Sherlock was doing experiments and it didn’t seem to trouble him. If he’d really dug through the fridge he would have come across the plate of human noses, and likely the various other tissue samples yet he was cooking like nothing was untoward._ It was unnerving so he sat there silently.

Several minutes later Sherlock was cautiously using a fork to bring a very tiny bite to his mouth. Bravely he parted his lips and allowed the morsel to gain entry. Now Sherlock could not stop himself. His eyes closed and he sighed deeply as flavours exploded onto his tongue. There was a subtle and delicate balance, the richness and savour not overwhelming, but at the same time, the profile exactly suited the complement of produce John had coaxed out of a very dismal selection. Normally Sherlock sought an almost ascetic life, denying himself anything but the bare amount of food necessary for maximum efficiency of his transport. He ate every bite, and the toast as well. Tea was replenished after his first large cup was emptied, and the second was even better than the first. Sherlock was shocked.

John washed up. He seemed perfectly comfortable, rooting through the cupboards, tutting about the state of everything. When he was done he fixed Sherlock another cup of tea, “I’m off love. If you actually want me to move in I’ve got to go pack up a bit.”

Anxiety raged through Sherlock. _John was leaving and he might not ever come back!_ “Do you need a hand? I notice your leg is not in the best working order.” _Faint excuse it was._ John was perfectly fit as his dancing career clearly demonstrated. His problems would be psychological ones, not physical, not really.

The soldier’s eyes twinkled, “Can’t bear to be parted, right? That’s fine by me. Come on you beautiful thing, I’d be proud to have you by my side.” Sherlock blushed. _No one called him a beautiful thing, not ever. No one patted his bum or gave it squeezes, certainly, no one ever took Sherlock’s arm and draped it over their own shoulder the second they were on the street_ , “Get us a cab love, it’s too far to walk from here.”

Sherlock waved his arm silently, and one of the drivers who kept an eye on Baker Street swooped in. Sherlock was good for business and the drivers of London had learned to keep a sharp eye out for his distinctive coat.  Without a word he opened the door and helped John in. The address the soldier gave was for a very poor neighbourhood. When Sherlock eyed the dismal rows of flats he was glad he’d impulsively asked John to move in with him. _His doctor deserved better accommodations_. Once they went inside his opinion only grew stronger. The entire building was shabby and ill-kept, the poorest of the more respectable places a bachelor could live.

After a brief discussion with an unsurprised landlord, Sherlock watched as John efficiently packed himself into a single duffle bag and one suitcase, just enough possessions for a man with a bad shoulder and bum leg to handle. The room he was leaving behind barely looked different once he was done, the soldier had nothing by way of ornamentation, and even the dishes in the cupboard, with the exception of a single mug, came with the minuscule bedsit. Sherlock took the suitcase, allowing John to retain his dignity by letting him heft his own bag to his good shoulder. Without expression, John took up a cane that was propped by the door and used it to get himself back to the street. Sherlock made no comment and merely flagged a new cab down as soon as he could.

Sherlock came up with several ideas simultaneously, all spurred by a single goal. _No matter what it took he was never letting John Watson go!_ The soldier would be proud, independent, but also very poor, and unable to secure some of the more basic necessities for comfort. Clearly taking a job as a dancer was physically beneficial for the recuperating soldier, but not financially stable. “Stay in my room while we get yours organised. I’ve ruined several pieces that should rightfully be available to you. Let me have a chance to replace them before you begin using the space.” He hadn’t but now he could say he had and get whatever John might need. _New carpet, a better bed, a larger wardrobe, a proper nightlight, a much better laptop. John’s current one was a dinosaur. Did it even work?_

John looked askance, “Your bed seems pretty comfortable but if you want me to sleep somewhere else, okay.” Sherlock’s mind adjusted automatically to the new parameters. _Pyjamas, warm slippers, a good quality robe, replace bath towels, check if John used a straight-razor or not, his shave suggested yes. Aftershave and proper soap_. _Maybe new sheets. Pillowcases as well, they came in sets didn’t they? New pillows probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. His mattress was a bit sketchy, perhaps it was time to replace that as well_.

His mental list derailed as he took in John’s last statement. _Wait. What?_ “No, not at all. You should still have a space to call your own though. Or we can use it for some other purpose. We can discuss it later.” Sherlock was flustered again. _John wanted to keep sleeping with him. Did that mean he wanted to keep their things together?_ Mentally Sherlock began relocating items from his bedroom to make space for the soldier, generously adding room for additional clothing and outerwear. _John would need a sturdy coat and shoes if they were going to be doing stakeouts together._ Sherlock’s clothes were bespoke, specially crafted to endure all sorts of swings in the weather as well as being appropriate for a large number of social settings. John clearly wore whatever he could afford in whatever sizes were close enough. Sherlock would rectify that as soon as he could. “As my partner, there are a variety of situations where you’ll need to wear appropriate disguises. As soon as you are measured my people will begin assembling what I need for you to keep on hand.” _More jumpers, casual trousers, a variety of footwear, rain gear, maybe a proper holster. John had callus on his fingers, he carried a handgun even now._ Sherlock felt darkly excited by that knowledge. _He was a doctor, eventually, he’d want to practice again, he’d need clothes that were suitable for such an environment_.

“Wow, I’m a _kept man_. I never thought I’d live to see the day.” Sherlock flushed entirely. He _would_ keep John if John would let him. Money wasn’t a problem, Sherlock had loads of it. He received a very healthy monthly stipend from the family Trust but he earned a substantial amount on a near daily basis. “Alright love, whatever you want. I’m yours to do with as you please.”

Sherlock nearly trembled with excitement. _Did John mean that? People often said things they didn’t mean_. “Perhaps we should get to know one another better before you give me free access to your existence.” _Someone who wanted Sherlock to know about them, all of them? Someone who willingly answered questions and oh, what if…what if John gave him biological samples? Nothing harmful, well maybe some of the blood samples would sting a bit, and perhaps some tiny scrapings here and there, and hair of course_. Sherlock tried to breathe normally. _A living specimen!_

“I think I’m good. Do your worst Sherlock. I think I can take it.” John seemed confident, lacing their fingers together and simply relaxing. “This has already been the most amazing day ever, I hope it never ends.”

Sherlock had the same hope. _John was marvellous, wonderful, astonishing_. By the time their cab arrived back on Baker Street the soldier had kissed Sherlock’s fingertips twice and made him blush three different times by complimenting his eyes, his voice, his hair, but then, John had said, “You’re just brilliant, I’m never going to get tired of how fucking smart you are. Sexiest thing _ever_!” Sherlock was speechless all over again. John handed him his luggage, “Run this up for us love, then we have to get some food in. The fridge is bare of edibles.”

Sherlock was already coming back down from the flat before he realised John had given him an order and he hadn’t baulked. _No one ordered him around!_ Scowling once more he rejoined the soldier, “You are an absolute _angel,_ my sweet. My leg is killing me but we’re not done yet.” John kissed his cheek and smiled warmly. All of Sherlock’s ire evaporated when he noticed John bravely trying not to limp as he turned toward the door. Casually he pulled the soldier to his side and let John lean on him instead, slowing his walk to stroll as they made their way to the shops down the street. “Thanks love,” said John softly when they got there. “I don’t really like admitting it still bothers me.”

“Whatever you need, my dear.” _What was he saying? He didn’t use endearments!_ Sherlock thought a moment. He also didn’t date but if he understood his agreement from the night before John _was_ technically his live-in boyfriend. He also didn’t have sex but he definitely remembered agreeing to let John do whatever he wanted to him whenever the time felt appropriate. “There’s no reason we can’t help each other whenever we need it.”

“True enough love, true enough.” John’s arm wound around Sherlock’s waist and the soldier hung on tightly, letting Sherlock carry more of his weight which the detective did gladly. He understood that John was unbending a huge amount to even _allow_ someone to assist him, so Sherlock made sure that all everyone else saw was a loving couple making their way in an unhurried fashion up and down the aisles. John’s limp grew pronounced by the time they made it to the registers and with some concern, Sherlock paid for everything and hailed another cab, “I’m not carrying all of this.” Sherlock was careful to complain loudly, just bossily making John get into the back while he loaded their bags into the boot.

When they got back to the flat Sherlock carefully managed to give John an equal number of sacks while ensuring that he bore the heaviest of the lot. His doctor had his pride and Sherlock wanted to ensure he did nothing to wound it, not if he could help it. John left his cane at the bottom of the stairs and Sherlock was humbled at the level of pure obstinacy the soldier displayed as he ignored the obvious pain of his body and got all the way up to the landing with only the smallest of limps. “I’ll deal with this, make tea John.” Sherlock made a show of cleaning the refrigerator of organic material, “I can begin my decay experiments some other time.”

“Sure. _Decay experiments_. You just never clean the crispers out, do you?” _Sherlock was not blushing_. He kept his face carefully away from John, “Don’t worry about it sweetheart, I’m a relentless homebody. I literally can’t help myself. If I’m staying here the flat is going to be clean, I’m just warning you. Unless you have a thing about cooking, I also don’t really like sharing my cooking area, if that’s alright.”

 _John was more beautiful and more perfect than the most elegant of mathematical equations. Was it too soon to propose? Shouldn’t he do something like that to prevent this miracle of humanity from ever leaving him?_ “If that’s what it takes to keep you happy John, very well, I suppose. However, I do use the kitchen for _my_ experiments which are very much _not_ for human consumption. We’ll need to come to some kind of compromise.” _There_. Sherlock was satisfied with his first tentative efforts at couplehood.

“Someone who wants to _compromise_ , oh my god, I really am in heaven.” John came over and gave Sherlock a very robust kiss, “You’re a genius aren’t you, you are! Tell you what, my genius angel, the table can be yours except for proper meals. We can be slobs if we want and eat in the front room. You’ve got a lot of equipment out already, it looks like it needs a good going over, and maybe some washing up, but I think we can sort it all out.”

“ _You_ sort it all out. I loathe doing that sort of thing.” His proclamation earned him another scorching kiss, “John?”

“I can’t help myself. Sherlock, I’ve been in the army for two decades. I need a certain amount of order and so forth to feel comfortable, I like things done a certain way. I promise to keep all your things accessible, but wow, you certain you’re _not_ actually an angel because you’re sort of perfect.” John sat on Sherlock’s lap just like he had at the club, straddling Sherlock’s hips, their bellies nearly pressed together again. “I want to make out. Do you know what that is?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I have a vague idea. Let’s just go with the premise that I know nothing.”

“Well okay, Jon Snow.” Sherlock was puzzled. _Who the devil was Jon Snow?_ “ _Making-out_ , kissing, clothes on, maybe a bit of hand-wandering.” John leant in and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, then to his jaw, and then John kissed Sherlock’s earlobe. Heat shot through him as that same weird tingling sensation made his chest tighten up, and his breath hitch. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?” remarked John calmly. Sherlock swallowed hard and then struggled not to tremble when John pressed another kiss right below his ear where his jaw and his throat met. The shot of heat was intense and dropped right down to Sherlock’s groin which began to respond happily. “Your skin is so soft.”

Sherlock realised his hands had somehow drifted upward and that his fingertips were now trailing up and down John’s rather firm back, exploring his shape and contours naturally, as if he were meant to be learning John Watson’s dimensions. _John was so fit, his body unyielding. Eventually, that toned body would soften, that marvellously expressive face would wrinkle. The grey in that sandy hair would spread and take over. Glasses were a definite part of John’s future, the dark blue of his eyes would be concealed from casual glances_. The heat grew almost unmanageable as Sherlock considered watching John change over time. _A lifetime of observation and study of a single being. Imagine what he could learn_? John’s mouth returned to his and Sherlock was no longer able to think.

 _Soft. So sweet. Warm. Delicious. Tender_. John’s kiss was intoxicating. Sherlock wanted more and the soldier willingly gave it. They sat there in the kitchen and kissed for ages, hands roaming at will, their soft sighs and occasional small laughs the only sounds to be heard. Eventually, John shifted a bit and gazed into Sherlock’s eyes, his expression hot and demanding, “You’re amazing.”

Sherlock realised that he was breathing harder than he really should be since they were just sitting and that he was perspiring lightly. It was then that he discovered that he was fully erect and had been for some time, “Oh.” Instantly he felt awkward and dropped his hands from where they’d been resting on John’s hips.

“Oh no you don’t.” admonished John, “Nothing to be shy about here. I’m no better off.” Without meaning to Sherlock’s gaze instantly dipped down to John’s crotch. There was a very significant bulge in his trousers, a rather intimidating length nestled against the crease of John’s hip. Sherlock swallowed hard. _John really was rather sizable. He’d seen more than enough when John was wearing his stripping outfit, scant as it was. What were they supposed to do next?_ John’s forefinger was at his chin as Sherlock’s face was tilted back up so they could resume eye-contact, “That was a lot of fun. We’re definitely doing more of that but _later_. If we don’t stop now I’m going to attempt to have sex with you because I really, really want to and I don’t think you’re quite there yet.”

Sherlock could barely deal with having an erection. Attaining orgasm seemed to be asking a lot. Penetrative sex was more than he could even conceptualise mentally and so with relief he nodded, “No. I’m not there yet.”

John closed his eyes and bit his lip hard. When he opened his eyes his face was determined and Sherlock watched as the soldier exhaled sharply, “Okay. Good. Well, that was a good beginning.”

Sherlock analysed John rapidly. The soldier was tense. _Sexual frustration. He would have a healthy appetite, he clearly had been restraining himself for a while. Unlike himself, John would require regular relief. If he didn’t already have lovers to take care of his needs he would seek them!_ Now Sherlock was as determined as John was. _He wasn’t letting John get wound up so much he needed to find someone else to help him out!_ “Show me what you like, I want to learn.”

The expression of amazement on John’s face was gratifying. “You want me to get off in front of you?”

“Well not exactly. _I_ want to do it.” John _already_ knew how to get himself off, what was the point of him doing it further? The goal was for _Sherlock_ to be able to provide that so that John would not feel the need or urge to _ever, ever, ever_ leave Sherlock _ever_. Not _ever_. “Show me what you like.”

John’s breathing grew ragged for a few moments and his hips bucked a tiny amount. Sherlock recorded his reactions as carefully as he could. _John was clearly extremely aroused by Sherlock’s inexperience. He had been in the army for a long time as well, taking orders, giving them, instructing other soldiers._ Sherlock didn’t particularly enjoy being ordered about but he _could_ take _instruction_ if he was interested in the topic, and he was _very_ interested in learning how to pleasure John, “You’re seriously asking…”

Sherlock blinked and considered his answer, “I wish to bring you to orgasm. Now. I’ve never witnessed someone do so, I’d like to. You need relief. _I_ will provide it. It’s important not to contaminate an experiment with too many outside variables.” _Like letting his soldier have sex with anyone but him_.

“Ah, the _jealous_ type, my favourite.” Sherlock blushed hard all over again but John just kissed him, “My perfect genius possessive angel. Sweetheart, I cannot wait to let you get your hands on me. Your bedroom, come on you sexy thing, I’m not going to lie. I’m going a bit crazy here.”

A few minutes later Sherlock found himself in a position he’d never been in before. They were in his bedroom. John was laying on his back, pillows mounded behind him while Sherlock sat gingerly on the small man’s thighs. Sherlock was still dressed but John was wearing only his pants. The muscles beneath his behind were hard, rocky almost, and John barely seemed to notice his weight as he settled down. It felt strangely comfortable to kneel over the soldier this way. He examined the man spread out before him and very much enjoyed the view. A dark smudge marked where moisture from his penis was spreading. Sherlock recalled that a clear viscous liquid was produced during arousal. _Cowper’s fluid. Pre-ejaculate_.  Suddenly he wondered what it tasted like. Mentally he shrugged. _He’d find out in good time_. “What first?”

John grinned up at him, “This isn’t going to take long. I’m practically ready now. You have no idea how sexy you are.” Sherlock’s blush came roaring back but he ignored it when John tugged down his pants to reveal himself.

John’s cock was exactly as Sherlock had envisioned it, the head perfectly tapered, barely peeking out from his foreskin, his shaft wide, and almost straight except for where it narrowed slightly near the top. It was darker than the faint honey of his flesh, almost rosy. John had a fair amount of very well-tended pubic hair. The rest of his body was perfectly smooth but Sherlock could see where the hair had likely been removed and he was surprised at the amount of regret he was feeling because it was absent. _John’s body hair was a part of him, and all his parts should be together!_ “You are going to stop shaving everywhere but your face,” Sherlock said absently, his fingers already trailing through the thick mass. _John would be glorious, how much body hair did he have normally?_

“Not a problem at all, I bloody well hate _shaving_ and _waxing_.” Sherlock’s fingertip swirled over the head of John’s penis with great delicacy, just enough to catch up a clear droplet to test between his fingers for viscosity. He realised the fluid would greatly increase his lover’s enjoyment by reducing unpleasant friction so he quickly smeared the generous supply around. The soldier was breathing hard already and then John’s hand covered his, “Like this, my wild beauty.” Sherlock found his fingers being wrapped around the soldier’s width. _Hot. Hard. Soft too. Spongy?_ John kept his hand on Sherlock’s and began moving it up and down slowly, “Loosen your grip a bit. Yeah, there.” It felt so strange and at the same time very satisfying to have John’s shaft in his hand. It slid pleasantly over his palm and fingers, the flare of the corona bumping into the web of his thumb, and he was surprised about how much he enjoyed the feeling of the warm firmness massaging his hand as he stroked.

One murmured instruction at a time was given to him as he practised giving John a hand-job. John huffed out hard quick breaths, commenting over and over again about how long Sherlock’s fingers were, how hard they felt. A whispered comment about playing the violin made the soldier’s hips rock even harder, and a quick series of “ _try this_ ” and “ _yeah don’t stop_ ” and “ _oh my god, what did you do_?” only a few short minutes later earned Sherlock the reward he’d been seeking. “Sherlock, oh fucking fuck, I’m coming. You’re making me come. Oh, fuck is…this…oh _fuck_!”

 _John was so stunning. The sounds he made were so very beautiful, animalist, almost pained_. The soldier’s face pulled into a weird rictus, frozen for a moment as his small body tensed everywhere. Sherlock could feel his penis twitching in his hand, felt the wet hot drip of semen on his fingers but he could not tear his eyes away from John’s expression. He was ecstatic over the rapture he could clearly witness on his lover’s face. _His lover. John was Sherlock’s lover_. “No one else John, I won’t have it. Just me from now on.” _Was it too soon to be this demanding?_ Sherlock kissed John’s cheeks and then his brow. He savoured the salt on his lover’s skin and relished the sound of John’s laboured yet contented breathing.

“That’s…really…not going to be a problem love.” John pulled him down so that Sherlock was lying directly on top of the soldier, mess and all, arched over him like a human canopy but John’s eyes were warm and happy, “I think it’s safe to say that since I agreed to move in with you, _and_ work with you, _and_ sleep with you, all in the space of how long? Practically no time at all, that’s how long. I think you can feel assured that you have caught my attention pretty much one hundred percent Sherlock Holmes. Why in the world would I want anyone else when I have an insanely smart, almost painfully beautiful, delicious, exciting, thrilling man such as yourself to devote my time to? There’s no man or woman out there that could, I know it.”

 _Oh, John._ “You need to clean up.” Semen was splattered on John’s hard belly. It was white and changing slowly from a thick white to a thin almost clear liquid. Without thinking he dabbed a fingertip into it and brought it to his mouth. _Bitter. Salty. Might be difficult to swallow but clearly, it could be done. An acquired taste for certain but not unappealing. Was it different over time?_ Determined to make notes of the various factors involved Sherlock realised he’d been analysing John’s emissions in silence.

He looked at the soldier. John’s eyes were as hot as they’d been before he’d come to orgasm. Another wicked grin spread across his face, “You are sexy as _fuck_ , do you know that? Just look at you. Wow.” John reached over and took hold of the finger that Sherlock had just lapped clean and brought it to his own mouth. Sherlock’s breath stuttered as John’s tongue swirled over his fingertip before the soldier sucked the digit inward up to his second knuckle. _Sexual tension. Yes. This was probably what he was feeling right now_. Sherlock knew he was erect again. He knew his heart rate had accelerated. He understood his brain was dumping chemicals into his bloodstream to encourage him. “May I touch you?”

“Yes, John.” There was no resistance now. Sherlock wanted this more than he’d ever wanted drugs. _He needed John’s hand on him. He needed to end this bizarre pressure that was making his abdomen almost ache, and his hips feel tight_.

“You’ve never orgasmed before?” John wasn’t mocking, his question was serious.

“No John, not while awake at least.” _How many times had he lost that battle? Too many. Now he was giving up willingly_.

“My perfect beauty.” sighed the soldier. “Let’s get you comfortable.” John ran his fingers up and down Sherlock’s sides, “Off with your trousers love, you can leave your pants on if you want.

 _Sherlock wasn’t wearing pants. He seldom did_. Shucking off his bottoms he stood there self-consciously, his erection bobbing about. Instinctively he cupped himself and almost hissed. _It was so sensitive now! Was it all the blood? Did that make a difference? Was that why he was giving in so easily because his brain was being starved of that precious fluid?_ “John?”

The soldier seemed to understand, “It’s okay my love. Come here, lay beside me, it’s okay.” Sherlock instantly responded to the soothing calm of John’s voice and crawled right into bed to snuggle against the small man’s side, “I’ll start slow. I’m going to use my hand but I might also use my mouth. Is that alright?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock would let John do anything at all. He needed him to take care of this. The tension was increasing, becoming frustrating. His hips were rocking a bit and he was so _aware_ of his penis. It was throbbing now. _Why was it getting worse?_

“You’re so wet.” There was wonder in John’s voice. Sherlock realised his eyes were closed so he opened them. John was staring downward and Sherlock looked too. His penis was very hard. It was dark too, and he noted that the head flared with greater significance than John’s did and that it was possibly longer but not thicker. The head was shiny too, and he noted that the precum he was producing was in ample quantity compared to John. Droplets were sliding down his shaft. “You’re just dying to come. Look how full your balls are.” Sherlock didn’t comment. He’d ignored his genitals for so long he could barely look at them. “I’m going to start.”

“Very well John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, yielding. _What?_ He was about to change his mind except John’s fingers were on him and the entire world became unimportant. _Strange! Warm. Dry. Hard. Oh_. John was simply holding him, pumping his hand so gently it was barely moving. The tingles began building inside of him. Sherlock could feel small hot pulses of _something_ galvanising every muscle in his body. John moved his hand a bit more, firmly stroking now. He pushed all the way to the base and pulled upward in one long smooth motion, his palm swirling over the head of his cock. Sherlock’s lips parted and he _moaned_. It was deep and decadent, and he couldn’t help it one bit.

“Oh my god. _Oh my god_ , I’m making you do _that_ again.” John’s movements gained determination and purpose. Sherlock could hear himself breathing. It was choppy and ragged, small thready gasps that made John croon encouragingly. The heat and tension began to ratchet upward with each move. Helpless to resist Sherlock moaned again, and John nearly moaned with him, “That _voice_ , oh you are so incredible. So amazing. So beautiful.”

Sherlock entire focus was on his cock. _He’d never felt such sensations_. His entire body was filled with bone-melting heat. _He felt delicious from head to toe. He was filled with euphoria. John smelled so fucking good. His hand felt so fucking good_. It was almost hurting now, the pleasure peaking higher and higher. _His skin felt tight_. _He could feel the sheets beneath him, the roughness of John’s un-manicured hands, the heat of the small body now pressed hard to his_. “John!” Their eyes locked. _Sherlock was drowning. Drowning. Drowning. He couldn’t breathe! His body was frozen. It was out of control. He was not controlling this! Panic!_

John kissed him.

John kissed him and the universe became pure bliss. Panic forgotten, Sherlock shook and cried out against John’s mouth as he deliberately came for the first time in his entire life. He felt his body tighten one last time before a full-body spasm triggered his release. _Astonishing. Pleasure. Such pleasure. Such divine exultation! When had his arms gathered John close to him? When had he begun rutting against John’s hand and belly? Were those sobs he was hearing? Was that him? When had the soldier pinned him to his back to allow Sherlock to hold him thusly, his small body sliding and rocking over his to encourage his experience to be prolonged? What was John saying?_ “Mine. You’re mine Sherlock, mine, mine, mine, mine, _mine!_ Oh, fucking hell, I really think I _am_ falling for you, oh my god is it possible that you’re really real?”

John’s words sank deeply again, and the euphoric feeling did not dissipate. Tears heavy in his eyes, Sherlock became aware of the dampness between them, that John was still holding his penis, and that the soldier was almost wild again, kissing Sherlock’s face all over, and then shocking the detective entirely by shimmying down.

 _John licked him clean_. “So much.” sighed the soldier happily. Sherlock’s body jerked and trembled with each warm pass of John’s questing tongue. The soldier was almost humming before he was done, and with a naughty wink, he kissed Sherlock so both of them could taste his essence together. _Bitter as expected. Saltier than he anticipated. Sweet with John’s saliva. More, please_. “The next time you can come right on my tongue.”

 _The next time!_ Sherlock’s eyes closed. He felt weary and so relaxed now, “Whatever you want John.” A warm chuckle was heard. “I might need to nap.” _His transport had never felt like this. He was completely tranquil, unable and unwilling to move away from the perfection of everything. His nerves sang with the shivering remnants of the rapture he’d just experienced, and he wanted more as soon as he could manage but not yet_.

“Me too my love. Let’s get under.” Muscles too saturated with satisfaction to work properly made them flail around before they managed to get under the duvet. “Cuddle up.”

With the last joules of energy remaining to him, Sherlock flopped to his side and allowed his arm to drape over John who was laughing softly again, “Sleepy.”

“Yes you are my angel, and it’s adorable. Sleep love. I’m here.” _I’m here. Love. I’m here. Love_. The scent of John filled his nose and crept right into his dreams as Sherlock slumbered. The soldier’s words took root and began to grow. _Love. John. Love. John. Love. John. Love._ His transport responded and wound itself around the equally unconscious doctor, holding him tight, both men smiling as they slept.


	3. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are settling in together with ease and happiness. Everything seems to be going so well.

“Picking up _strays_ Sherlock?” _Mycroft_. _The least pleasant way to be woken._ Sherlock sighed irritably and then nearly yelped in surprise as John practically exploded from the bed. The soldier had Sherlock’s brother face down on the floor before either man could react, his nakedness still only unbroken by his pants, a snarl twisting the otherwise expressionless look on his face, “ _Unhand_ _me,_ you _cretin_!”

“Who _the fuck_ are you and why _the fuck_ would you walk into our bedroom unannounced?” John’s voice was rough with menace and Sherlock felt himself harden. _Our bedroom!_ Tugging the duvet high he covered himself, “Shall I call the police, my love? I can break him a bit if you want, who is this anyway?”

 _Break Mycroft? Oh, John, you utter angel_. Sherlock’s heart was now the part of him that was filling with new warmth and he nearly glowed with it. “This is my interfering older brother, Mycroft. Mycroft, this is my boyfriend, John Watson. He’s a soldier. A doctor as well. I suspect he has a bit of PTSD. In the future not taking him by surprise, and knocking first might be something to consider.”

John wasn’t letting Mycroft go. He kept the much taller man pressed inelegantly to the rather filthy carpet, “Your _brother_? Hmm, I don’t really see it. You’re gorgeous. He looks sort of like he eats lemons on a regular basis. So, police?”

Sherlock barked out a short laugh. _Mycroft did look like that_. “No point, my dear. Mycroft is having a sexual relationship with the local DI, they’ll just send him, and all that will happen is that we’ll have the both of them here asking questions.” Sherlock looked down at his brother, “You can let him up, John.”

“Whatever you want, my angel.” said the soldier amiably. Leaning down John snarled one more time, “I will most certainly break something the next time you try something like this. I don’t know you mate, you don’t know me, listen carefully. I’m living here now with your rather tasty younger brother. I don’t like being surprised. I react badly. Knock next time, there’s a good boy.”

John stood up and Mycroft got to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. He glared down the several inches it took to meet John’s eyes, and John looked back at him with such an enormous amount of indifference that Sherlock’s heart nearly burst into flame from the heat he now felt. _John was magnificent. Mycroft was an arse. He’d deserved every humiliating second_. Mycroft glanced at him and froze, reading his brother with ease, “You are _joking_.”

“No, he’s not joking, you pompous prick. Let me guess, _government_ , right? You smell like a bureaucrat. Sherlock and I are dating _and_ living together, but since he’s legally an adult, that’s not really your business, is it?” John turned to look at him, “Sweetheart, I need tea and dinner. I’m getting dressed but first, can I throw this shit out?”

“He obviously wants something.” Sherlock sighed with annoyance, “Wait out front Mycroft. We need to dress.”

Mycroft left without another word. John grinned at him, “That was fun.” He nearly pounced on Sherlock, pinning him to the bed, “Turned you on, didn’t it? Don’t lie, I could see it did.”

Sherlock knew he was blushing right down to his toes but he nodded stiffly, “Yes.” _He was still hard_. “Later though. Mycroft wants something and I want him out of our home.”

John’s expression instantly softened, “ _Our_ home.” Sherlock received one of John’s trademark blistering kisses before the soldier pulled back, “Up we get, then, before I decide we need another lesson.” _Sherlock’s face was going to burn off._ He dressed, even including snug pants to somewhat disguise his current state, and chose pyjamas and a voluminous robe. John just climbed back into his day clothes and went to the kitchen after squeezing Sherlock’s bum again.

When he was ready Sherlock sauntered to the front room and collapsed onto the sofa. Mycroft was perched fastidiously in the chair Sherlock normally sat in, and in silence, they listened to John clattering around the kitchen. After several minutes passed them by Mycroft caved and spoke first, “ _Dating_ Sherlock? How long have you known this man?”

“John, when did we meet?” shouted Sherlock toward the kitchen.

“What do you mean?” the soldier shouted back, “The first time you saw me was on the pole but you asked me to work with you when I was trying to give you a lap-dance.”

“When was that?” _The look of horror and disgust on Mycroft’s face was worth everything_. Sherlock pretended not to see.

“I don’t know, two days ago? One day ago? It’s blurry already. Dinner in twenty, sweetheart.” John was humming happily, clearly chopping something up, and shuffling pots and pans around busily.

“You’re living with _an exotic dancer_?” Mycroft looked offended.

Sherlock bristled, “John was a _soldier,_ Mycroft _and_ he is a doctor. His wounds have obviously prevented him from re-entering the workforce as befits his actual skills. He is working with me now, he will return to being a doctor when he’s ready.” He was furious. _How dare Mycroft speak of John in any tone other than complete respect?_ “What do you want Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s lips pressed together in a certain way and Sherlock nearly groaned out loud. _No. Not that. Anything but that!_ “Mummy and Papa are coming to meet Gregory. They want you for dinner.”

“As the appetiser or the dessert? He’s pretty sweet.” John was coming in from the kitchen with a plate of biscuits and three cups of tea on a tray, “So, meeting the parents already. Lucky me.”

Sherlock grinned. _That’s right. He had a boyfriend now. Dinner with Mummy and Papa might not be so terrible_. “If you want to John, it’s dreadfully dull. Mycroft has to introduce his current playmate to them and convince them he’s serious this time.”

Mycroft was scowling, “I am _very_ serious about Gregory.”

“You were _very serious_ about Ian. You were also _very serious_ about Rupert. Now they’re supposed to believe that _Gregory_ is special as well?” Sherlock was scathing. He’d watched his brother toy with man after man, promising them much, taking everything, and leaving them shattered and forced to make new lives. He was fond of Lestrade and was not looking forward to the eventual catastrophe.

“Ian ran off and married some actor, and Rupert…well, you know what life he’s living now. He wanted children, and now he has them. Relationships aren’t _easy_ Sherlock, though I suppose you will discover _that_ soon enough.” Mycroft stood, ignoring his tea, “Dinner is Saturday. Anthea will come around with a car to pick you up. Formal, of course.” _Four days. Why now?_

“Nice to meet you Mycroft. See you Saturday.” John sounded chirpy and cheerful, “Oops, have to stir.” He darted back into the kitchen and resumed making a racket.

“Why?” asked Mycroft, cutting his gaze to the kitchen.

“It’s not really any of your business Mycroft. I’ll see you Saturday.” Sherlock was extremely content. _This unexpected visit had garnered so many wonderful memories. He would treasure the sight of Mycroft’s face being ground into his dirty carpet for years to come_.

Mycroft sneered, “Don’t forget to inform your good doctor about your addictions Sherlock. _Junkies_ are high-risk.”

There was a deafening silence in the flat and with a cold smile Mycroft left. Several sharp sounds preceded John coming out of the kitchen, a serious expression on his face, “Sweetheart, tell me about this.”

 _Sweetheart_. John’s tone was one of concern. _He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t judging. He was worried_. Sherlock confessed instantly _. He would not lie to John, not like he lied to other people. John was different_. “I _was_ a drug-addict for a very long time. It is how I deal with…how I _dealt with_ the mental overload I frequently experience.” Sherlock never spoke about it but here he was telling John without hesitation, “I used my skills as a detective to earn money to purchase a place to live and to keep myself as disconnected as possible. I’ve been in and out of treatment, all futile. I stopped myself a year ago but Mycroft continues to treat me as if I’ve freshly used.”

Sherlock found himself being tenderly kissed, and that warm gentle arms were wrapping around him to hold him close to a welcoming body, “I’ll help you, love, I can do that. It will be alright.” _Oh, John. What miracle of chaos had allowed them to cross paths?_ “It’s not easy to deal with something like that. I understand.”

Sherlock did too. _John had a relation, someone close, and that someone also had an addiction. His response wasn’t disappointment, or criticism, so not parents or other authority figures which would more likely produce resentment and intolerance. A sibling?_ “Your brother?” he ventured.

John chuckled ruefully, “Sister. Harriet, Harry for short. She’s a drinker, just like our late father. Mum could never deal with it, it was ugly. I’ve always tried to be there for her but I was away in the army. She had it under control but it spiralled out again when mum passed. Harry’s divorced now, her wife left her because of the drink, they’re still sorting it out. I hope it works out. Harry really loves Clara, they were good together.”

“What’s your weakness, John?” If his sister had an addiction, John might as well. Mycroft was addicted to power and control, he didn’t admit it, but he was. Everyone had something.

Another rueful laugh, “ _Danger_. I never get enough. It’s a problem.”

 _John continually redefined the meaning of perfection._  “I can promise you that, I can promise you lots of that.” _All the time, every day practically._ Sherlock hadn’t been joking about needing a bodyguard. “I know you have a handgun.”

John stilled for a long moment, “I guess you would, wouldn’t you.” Slowly he relaxed again, “It isn’t registered but I’m not comfortable with the idea of being entirely unarmed.” He seemed ashamed.

Sherlock kissed him with as much passion as he could manage, “I don’t mind one bit, John. You are such a lovely surprise.” John was grinning into their kiss now and Sherlock grinned back, “Thank you for what you did to Mycroft. That was probably the first time in his entire life he’s been manhandled.”

“Oh I don’t know about that, he seemed pretty comfortable in the arse-up position.” Both of them snickered like five-year-olds before kissing each other again, “Come on Sherlock, I was in the middle of cooking.”

Sherlock was starving now but like John, on the first night, it wasn’t for food. It wasn’t even for sex. Sherlock was starved for _affection_ and that need seemed to delight the soldier. He let Sherlock hover close, assisting in a getting-in-the-way kind of way but both of them were having a good time and, though it made getting dinner ready take twice as long, eventually it was in the oven and baking away. When he realised he was clinging he broke away awkwardly, “Apologies.”

“Well don’t stop, I was enjoying that.” John tugged him back and with a soft blush Sherlock settled in. He’d never felt cravings like this before. The heat from John’s body was as addictive as his scent, his boyish laugh, his teasing glances. Eagerly his arms wound themselves around John’s torso as the soldier tilted his head back for a kiss, “I’m just going to wash up so there’s less after dinner.”

Sherlock shrugged. _John could do whatever he wanted as long as he kept allowing him to just soak in his presence_. John did. Sherlock sagged against his small form and listened to John’s aimless chatter about this and that, his ability to lull and charm his otherwise restless self almost magical. _Sherlock knew he’d never get enough of John Watson. Not ever_. “You are beautiful.” he said sincerely, “You bring such light into the world.”

“By washing your manky dishes? Thanks love, that’s very sweet.” John twisted his head for a kiss and Sherlock gladly gave it. Both of them heard a pair of heels tapping their way up the stairs and a frown furrowed the soldier’s brow.

“Mrs Hudson, my landlady.” Sherlock hastened to reassure his lover, “She checks on me frequently, and very often brings…”

“ _Coo_ , Sherlock, biscuits! I know you have a little friend over!” Mrs Hudson was dressed as she often was, in a lacy and flour-dusted apron, a demur floral-patterned dress, and a warm deeply coloured wrap. She had a plate piled high with an assortment of confections and her eyes were sparkling with barely suppressed excitement, “I had words with that brother of yours. I’ve told him time and again that he is not welcome to simply come and go as he pleases. I have a locked door for a reason! It’s getting changed later today, petty I know, but I was coming to get your old key.”

Mrs Hudson was staring at John and Sherlock realised he hadn’t let his lover go even a bit. John was grinning. Sherlock cleared his throat, “We’ll be needing _two_ keys, Mrs Hudson. This is Doctor John Watson. He’s agreed to stay with me.”

“ _You!_ You’re _Martha Hudson!_ You’re a legend! I can’t believe I’m meeting you!” John pulled out of Sherlock’s arms and began enthusiastically shaking Mrs Hudson’s hand the second he relieved her of the baked treats, “It’s an honour Mrs Hudson, a real honour. _The Ankle_ is a trick I did not enjoy learning, let me tell you. How in the world did you ever manage? _Honey, this is Martha Hudson, did you know_?” John was very clearly thrilled.

Sherlock was completely floored. _Her first name was Martha? What in the world was The Ankle?_ Whatever it was the name made Mrs Hudson’s mouth drop open in shock before a very pleased smile crossed her face. “You know my work? Dancer?”

“Yes! Well, I _was_. I’ll be working with this one from now on. Actually, I’m retired from the army, I was dancing to get back into shape and help with some problems I ended up with after I was shipped out.” John’s smile was warm and genuine. He didn’t seem to mind letting Mrs Hudson know about the work he was required to do.

“I understand, I have a hip. _The Ankle_ is long in my past. Oh my goodness, you and Sherlock. A _doctor_ as well! Oh, I have to make something special to celebrate. Welcome John, it’s very good to meet you. Oh Sherlock, _well done_.” Sherlock was flustered. He didn’t understand anything they were talking about at first and then suddenly it all fell into place. _Mrs Hudson used to be an exotic dancer! How had he not known that?_ John was clearly very aware of her because the soldier was gazing at her with awe and admiration. “Give me that key Sherlock, I’ll be back later. Now I won’t have to worry about you being locked out, I’m sure you won’t be going anywhere today.”

 _Sherlock refused to blush in front of Mrs Hudson_. Instead, he fished his flat keys from his coat pocket and silently handed them over. It was late in the day but Mrs Hudson knew all sorts of people, and if she wanted to spite Mycroft by getting the locks changed on the instant, then that was fine with him. He kissed her cheek and endured her titter as she winked cheekily at John and received an equally rascally wink in return. “Stop flirting with her.”

“Stop flirting with _Martha Hudson_? Not on your life, you gorgeous creature you. This is a heaven I have never come close to fantasising about. You, here, this place, her, your arse, wow.” John grabbed his bum again, this time with both hands, “I’m never leaving, I hope you realise that.”

 _It really was heaven. Those were exactly the words Sherlock wanted to hear._ “Good.” He kissed John softly, “I think you’ll fit in just perfectly here.”

John’s grin was toothy, “I think I’ll fit in here perfectly too.” Both his hands were sudden spread across Sherlock’s buttocks, and the suggestive wink he gave was anything but subtle. Sherlock didn’t know how to respond, he froze to the spot. _John was blatantly flirting with him about sex. What did he do?_ John chuckled, “You are a treat, you really are. No rush love, no rush at all.”

Sherlock relaxed. _He trusted John. There was something about the man that just felt right_. He was soothed by John’s presence just as much as he was revitalised by it. Biscuits provided something to talk about as Sherlock told John the little he knew about Mrs Hudson. While their dinner finished cooking John began to sort out all of Sherlock’s equipment, flattering the young scientist over and over again about his interests and knowledge, “I can’t keep this to myself, I’m supposed to blog about my life, and it is part of my required therapy. Do you mind if I write a bit about the things you do, love? I don’t know that anyone reads my posts but I think what you do is pretty fascinating. Maybe others will too.”

 _John was earnestly asking!_ “What would you write about?”

“I don’t know. You’re a consulting detective, and if I remember correctly, you’re the only one. That’s pretty interesting. You work a lot of strange cases. People like that sort of thing. You do experiments at home and don’t think I don’t know what a human nose looks like. What exactly were you going to do with all of them anyway? All of that is just…well, it’s amazing. So. Would you mind?” _John’s face was sincere. His eyes were sincere. His body said nothing of deception or malicious intent._ Every tell Sherlock could see regarding untruthfulness was absent. _John really wanted to do this._

“If you wish John. I suppose the worst that could happen is that more people request our services.” _Our services._ Working with John would be so much better than working alone. He might even be able to make a proper living out of the Work! Already he could feel the truth of that, and in some things, Sherlock had long since learned to trust his instincts _. John was right for him, perfect for him. Together they could do whatever they wished_. “I do contract out frequently despite the large number of hours I donate to the Met, ungrateful though they are. Their incompetence is more of a bar to justice than any cleverness on behalf of the actual villain.” _They never paid either, no matter how long Sherlock worked on a case, or what he suffered to solve it_.

John laughed loudly and Sherlock beamed. _He hadn’t meant to be amusing but apparently, he was. Wonderful._ John came over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, “I bet they just _love_ you.”

Sherlock’s happy smile dropped away. _Freak._ That’s what they called him. They looked at him with suspicion and doubt. The police had their opinions and views about him, and they weren’t shy about letting him know. _If the puzzles weren’t so compelling he’d never endure such treatment but mysteries needed to be solved, and he was the only one who could solve them_ , “No. _Love_ is not the word I would use.”

Suddenly John’s presence seemed to encompass him. The soldier was filled with protective concern, holding Sherlock close, looking up into his eyes with a soft gentle smile, “Let anyone even try to be rude to you when I’m around. I’m not a very nice man. You should probably know that about me.” The threat was there despite the softness of the soldier’s voice.

Kissing John was one of the very best ways to communicate so many feelings so Sherlock did. The warmth in his heart burned hotter than ever now, and he felt lit up from the inside out. _John was special, surprising, addictive, and marvellous_. “This has been a very good day.”

“Yeah, it really has. All we need now is another murder-mystery tonight, wouldn’t that be fun?” _John! Oh, John._ Sherlock’s heart had never experienced such things. It felt larger, warmer, and infinitely capable of becoming _more_ so if fed on John’s sweet words and endless perfection, “I can’t believe this is my life now. Kicking arse and shagging Sherlock. Brilliant!”

John’s coat chirped and both of them frowned. “Who would be calling me this late?” wondered the soldier as he went to fetch his mobile. He checked his message and scowled, “Work. They’re asking me to pick up a set tonight to fill in for someone.”

“ _Absolutely not_. You no longer work there.” Sherlock felt weird and disoriented for a moment. _John would never go back on that stage. He would never be required to reveal himself to anyone. He was Sherlock’s now, no one got a piece of John Watson!_

“Damn fucking right I don’t.” John stabbed out a message and sent it off. “There, all taken care of. Dinner?” John’s eyes were bright and shining. Sherlock loved the shade of them, how they crinkled at the corners, how every inch of John’s face told him so many things. _How was all of this happening? Where had John Watson been all his life?_ He’d never felt like this. He’d never been so content, so happy, so tranquil, and they’d barely done anything together or even spent much time together. A week ago he’d been entirely unaware of the soldier’s existence, and now he was planning to find out all the different ways he could keep John from ever exiting his life. “Come on sweetheart, let me woo you with food. Clearly, I need to keep someone as dazzling as you impressed, I’d hate to become boring.”

 _As if that could ever happen!_ Still, it was only fair though to begin admitting problem areas. Most of the violent crime cases he’d worked on regard domestic situations were often based on small misunderstandings that blew up into monstrous over-reactions. It was probably a good idea to prepare his soldier for the battle ahead. “I’m very high-maintenance. You’re likely to leave in frustration.” All that happened was John giving him yet another bone-melting kiss.

“I _love_ to dote. A dream come true, you really are.” Another heated kiss was delivered before John led Sherlock to the kitchen by his hand and began to fuss over him. Sherlock found himself seated in the most gentlemanly of ways, his perfectly brewed tea set by his hand, and a plate of something that steamed and released a variety of sumptuous odours was set in front of him, “It’s just a curry, nothing fancy.”

 _Nothing fancy?_ Sherlock took a bite and did not even attempt to stifle the appreciative sounds he made. _This was ambrosia_. “Marry me,” he said after half his plate was consumed. _Such food! He’d watched John make this and he had no idea how the soldier had done it!_

John laughed, “That good, is it? Tell you what love, propose again in a month and I’ll consider it.”

 _A whole month_? Anxiety raged through him again before he steeled himself. _He had an entire month to convince John Watson to remain with him forever. He could do this. He would do this. John was his and no one would ever have a chance to get him._ “Very well, expect another conversation about this in four weeks.” He sounded testy and bit his lip with chagrin. _That wasn’t very romantic_.

John laughed again, reaching across the table to squeeze Sherlock’s fingers, “Alright sweetheart, four weeks then.” _Oh. Well, John was very accommodating. That was convenient_. Sherlock made sure he finished his entire meal since John had gone through so much effort to make it special. He felt uncomfortably full and John tutted at him, “You don’t have to overeat love, just whatever you want. It’s alright to leave a bit if you’re done. Still, I’m pretty pleased that you had as much as you did. You strike me as a fussy eater.”

 _Sherlock really was_. He only ate in certain restaurants and with certain people. He could sit at a table and order anything anyone liked but he very seldom shared an actual meal with anyone apart from a very short list of individuals. _He’d asked John out immediately and hadn’t thought a thing about that_. “I probably could use a stone or two in weight.”

John looked him up and down, considering, “You’re like a racehorse. I’m likely to end up like all the rest of the Watson men, pear-shaped and needing really thick glasses.”

“Really John?” _Should he sound so fatuous?_ Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He could practically see the progression of years on John as he slowly changed from the hard-body he currently was to the gentler and more yielding form age would bring. _How incredibly fascinating. John was a marvel already, how much data could he gather over the long years as the soldier slowly changed on a daily basis? An experiment that never ended. Utter bliss._ “I look forward to all of it so much.”

“What, you’re looking forward to me being podgy and wrinkly?” John looked down at himself with some dismay.

“Oh yes, John. That sounds amazing.” _It did! How could it not? It would take decades for John to reach that state.  Decades!_ “I would feel honoured to witness it!” he confessed sincerely.

John was looking at him with amazement on his face all over again, “You’re actually serious.”

Sherlock felt his brows knit together in confusion. _Was this a strange thing to anticipate_? “Do you suppose I’m only intrigued _now_ because you’re _currently_ extremely fit?”

“Well…yes, actually. You don’t really know me or anything.” John was watching him cautiously.

Sherlock had to blink several times as he processed this. “Perhaps some context is in order. I am a singularly independent individual. I don’t like _people_. I don’t get on with most people, and in fact, most people I do interact with ensure that those moments of contact are as brief as possible. I am merely a resource for most, not a _friend_ , not a _colleague_ , not an anything but _service contract_ to be concluded as speedily as possible. I know many people, have many favours owed to me, but that’s not the same as being close with anyone. I know many who are very grateful for what I’ve done for them, but I would not offer to share my work, or my life with them the way I have with you. You too are singular. You, of all the people I have come across in my life, have been instantly appealing because of your _skills_ and _fortitude_ , not because of your appearance, though I will not deny the power of first impressions. You have been a constant and very pleasant surprise. I would enjoy continuing our association as intimately as we can for as long as possible.”

“But you’d still think I was sexy.” The soldier sounded dubious.

“I would still think you were sexy.” _In what way, shape, or form could John ever_ not _be sexy?_ Sherlock’s mind suddenly produced a series of mental images of John in various states of weight, age, moods, every factor it could come up with, and Sherlock found every last one of them entrancing.

“Well good then, I can work with all of that.” John pushed Sherlock into a hard chair and assumed his apparently favourite position of sitting astride Sherlock’s lap, “We’re moving pretty fast.”

“Is there a reason to go slower?” Worry shot through him. _Was he pushing too hard? Was he going to drive his doctor away by asking for too much too soon?_

“None come to mind, I’m just noting.” John settled himself and rested his arms on Sherlock’s shoulders, leaning in to kiss his cheeks.

“I have no comparable experience to judge by. I like you. I want you to remain. You’ve also promised to teach me about sex, so there’s an implicit promise of continuation.” Sherlock realised he was _already_ entirely addicted to the man in front of him. Honesty and directness were the only tools he had at his command to woo the doctor. He knew he needed to learn about John, all about John, everything, all of it, right down to his very last molecule. He’d never been so drawn to someone before, and he wondered at his lack of hesitation as his entire world view smoothly altered itself to orient around the small soldier. _Was this normal? Did attachments form so quickly?_

John was smiling, and his eyes looked…soft? “Yes.” Sherlock received a very gentle kiss on the lips, “That’s a promise I’m willing to make.”

 _Continuation? Oh, John!_ Sherlock kissed John back, encouraging the smaller man as best he could to deepen the kiss, to allow that new flame to flare up, to demonstrate what his words made him feel. “Let’s go to bed John.”

They’d slept the afternoon away but he wasn’t tired and neither was the doctor. With another giggle, John took Sherlock’s hand and together they bundled themselves off to bed. John was aggressive and dominant but Sherlock loved it, willingly submitting to anything his Captain might want, and all of it was thrilling.

John loved to kiss. He was really good at it. Those facts were currently central to Sherlock’s awareness of reality. The soldier told Sherlock that he planned to kiss him everywhere that night, and he’d actually been serious about that. At the moment John was kissing the back of Sherlock’s shoulders, and each feathery press of mouth made the detective shiver a tiny bit. When each inch of his flesh, and that included _every_ intimate part of him, had been kissed and even licked in a few choice spots, John gathered Sherlock up in his arms and got them into what he referred to as the snuggle position. “You kissed my behind.”

“Yeah, it’s gorgeous. Of _course_ I kissed it.” John sounded matter-of-fact but Sherlock flushed again.

“It’s filthy.” _Certainly, most people thought it so?_

“No, it’s not. Your bottom is beautiful. Eventually, I’m going to be doing a lot more than just kissing it.” John seemed very certain and Sherlock found himself nodding.

“I suppose John.” The soldier giggled, “I’m a bit surprised is all.”

“Well, it’s all new to you. It’s more than just rubbing our bits together until it feels good. There’s so much to it.” John ran his hand over Sherlock’s arm, “I’m going to show you every way I know how to make us feel good. There’s so much for you to learn.”

“As long as it’s just you and me, I will be content.” Sherlock was _extraordinarily_ jealous he realised. Possessive didn’t even come close to how he felt about the soldier.

“Of course it will be just you and I! What?” John sounded offended, “I know lots of people step out on their partners, and that’s just…I. _No_ , Sherlock, I can promise that I will never, ever, not even slightly, come even close, not ever will I ever, and I’m _very_ serious here, I will never cheat on you.” John had to take a deep breath before he continued, “I am a _very_ monogamous person. I don’t enter into relationships lightly no matter how quickly you and I got together. This is all different. You and I aren’t like anyone else. You’re not a one-off or a casual shag! I’ve had those because a lot of the time there isn’t a choice for a soldier on the move. You are my _boyfriend_ , and I am not the kind of individual that thinks that sort of bad behaviour is acceptable no matter what the temptations might be. I want this. I want a proper relationship that goes somewhere. I think you do too.”

Sherlock was very content. “Indeed John.” There was no pressure for more than what they’d already shared. His head was on his soldier’s chest, their bodies curled together, and John indulged in another session of merely touching Sherlock gently, petting and caressing him until they slowly drifted off to sleep.


	4. The Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is entirely captivated with his new partner in life. John's perfections seem endless.

Sherlock’s phone rang early in the morning. “Homicide.” Without a word, John climbed out of bed, dug out clean clothes and before Sherlock could even find his socks the soldier was dressed and off to the kitchen to make tea and toast. “No _time_ John.”

“Yes, there _is_ time, my love. I’m a soldier. You need fuel to operate, eat this toast and drink this tea, and then we’ll go. Those bodies won’t be any less dead in five minutes, and then I won’t have to worry about you not eating all day.” _Well, that was fairly reasonable_. Without further argument Sherlock ate his toast which John generously smeared with honey, and accepted the thermal mug that was offered him.

The second the last crumb was swallowed they took their tea and left the building quietly so as not to disturb Mrs Hudson. That was futile. She was waiting for them in the foyer with a paper sack. “It’s so early boys, you can’t have had a proper breakfast. John, don’t let this one get away with not eating for days like he does.” _Mrs Hudson!_ “Here are some sandwiches, some of those biscuits I made yesterday, and some nibbles.” With a pat for their arms, Mrs Hudson made John take the sack before disappearing back into her flat.

John fitted the various items into Sherlock’s Belstaff pockets and tucked a sandwich into his own jacket as well. Once they were ready they hit the streets, flagged down a taxi, and after a brief ride, were soon on their way to the scene. Sherlock marched ahead and didn’t realise that John wasn’t right behind him. Lestrade was about to tell him what was going on but Sherlock ignored the DI, turned on his heel, and went to find his lover.

John was standing on the street glaring up at Sally Donovan who was poking the soldier in the chest as she angrily shouted questions it him, “Why are you here? Who are you? What do you want?” She kept repeating her questions, giving John no time at all to answer. _She hadn’t been on the night John had first come with him. Damn her attendance today!_

“ _Doctor Watson_ is with me, Detective Donovan.” Sherlock’s voice was cold. He didn’t care for Donovan. She had a chip on her shoulder about the entire world, and regularly made a point of spreading her personal misery around as much as possible.

Donovan sneered at John the second he spoke, “Oi, what are you doing hanging around with _the freak_? Come to interfere with dead bodies? You know he’s a psychopath, don’t you? It’s just a matter of time before the crimes we investigate are caused by him.”

“ _High-functioning sociopath_. Is that so very difficult to remember?” Sherlock was cold inside now. _John had heard the name. He now knew what Sherlock was. He knew. He would leave as soon as he could_.

John merely cocked his head at Donovan before flatly stating, “He’s showed you up more than once, hasn’t he. I can see he has. Let me tell you something soldier. If the field of battle is this, then we use whatever tools are on hand to achieve success. You don’t have to like Sherlock but believe me, _officer_ , I will not tolerate slander, offence, or insult, I will not. You will be seeing a lot of me from now on, I’m sure the Metropolitan Police can use all the skilled help they can get _while they can get it_ from Sherlock Holmes. He won’t always be at your disposal.”

 _John was a miracle. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t shouted. He spoke plainly and with assurance_. Now that the words were out there Sherlock was even more dedicated to his goal of keeping John Watson with him forever. Sally Donovan was completely taken aback before she rallied her ever present indignation, “Why you little…”

“ _Sally!_ ” Lestrade was there and he had hard eyes for his subordinate. “We’re _waiting_ for Holmes. What are you doing? We don’t have all day, hurry it up, Donovan.”

“He brought his _boyfriend_.” sneered the detective. Her eyes were as hard as Lestrade’s but filled with malice and spite.

John shrugged, “So what if he did?” he turned to Lestrade with a warm smile, “Hello, I’m Doctor John Watson, late of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, retired. I’m working with Sherlock now.”

“So you’re _work_ partners?” Lestrade was confused. Sherlock snorted with irritation.

“No, we’re shagging, but also yes. Did you call us about a dead body? Can we deal with _that_ now?” John was pointed and Lestrade looked discomfited.

Sherlock huffed an impatient sigh, “If _Donovan_ can sleep with _Anderson_ who is a colleague, surely I as _an independent contractor_ , can work or sleep with whomever I choose, and not have it affect my skill-set! John has talents of his own. If you don’t actually want our help then it was very rude of you to drag us from our bed at half-five in the morning.”

Lestrade and Donovan both seemed to be having difficulty imagining this scenario but John was grouchy about it, “We were completely settled. I needed at least four more hours of that, so can we please get on with this or I’m taking Sherlock home and going back to bed.”

“You are having _sex_ with the _freak_?” revulsion twisted Donovan’s face even as it turned her voice cold, “How can you? What’s wrong with you?”

John was in her face an instant later, “You called him _what_?” he asked softly, their eyes locking together. The tall detective stepped back instinctively. “ _Donovan_ was it? Detective Donovan. I have already stated that I will not tolerate that kind of behaviour. If you persist in maligning my partner publically while he is attempting to help your sorry division I will have no choice but to go to your superiors to mention your issues. Before I lodge my formal and _very detailed_ complaint I will take myself online to post the exact exchange word-for-word onto my blog, and because I can be a spiteful fuck, I will encourage every single hacker I know to doxx you, and basically make you feel like the world is against you, which it will be. So? _Nice words_ from now on?”

“Are you _threatening_ me?” hissed Donovan, her body tense and arching forward menacingly.

“Yes.” John did not flinch, nor did he move a hair when she leant in to glare closely at him. Instead, he sniffed delicately, “You really need a breath mint. You smell like semen.”

“I can explain that.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder as the last, most useless member of Lestrade’s team exited the building, clearly wondering where everyone was, “Anderson, she’s over here.” John laughed.

“ _What did you just say to me?_ ” Donovan was shocked, and clearly very taken aback. She also stepped away and made an obvious effort to not breathe in John’s direction. The doctor was biting back a smile.

“Judging by the state of your knees you’ve been cleaning Anderson’s floors again. His wife must be so grateful for your help.” Sherlock was extra-sweet because Lestrade was practically reeling. The DI clearly had no idea how to handle John or the rapidly escalating situation.

“Hah! _Brilliant_ , love. Come on, dead body right? Let’s get going before it begins to smell.” Jauntily John walked toward the building in question and silently Lestrade took the lead, bringing them all to a small flat deep in the interior of the building. There was only one door which clearly had been broken open, and inside there were was only a single deceased female but no immediate signs of trauma. She was naked but for a sheet that partially covered her hips, and her brilliant orange hair spilt to one side in a shocking contrast to the beige carpet.

They glanced over the scene briefly. “Poison,” said John immediately. Sherlock scowled. _He thought so too. How had John known?_ “Look how blue her lips are, that’s not normal asphyxiation, something extreme happened. Poison.”

Sherlock hid a smile. _John was brilliant!_ Anderson was standing there, his frown now a match for Donovan, “Who are you?” he said, sounding confused. _How dense was Anderson?_ Sherlock was positive the man had been there that first night with John. It irritated the detective that someone could possibly forget John Watson.

“This is _the freak’s_ new bedmate.” Donovan was still angry and very obviously searching for a way to lash out at the small man in front of her. Her well-cut modest business suit was at odds with the loose-fit trousers and checked shirt that John was currently wearing beneath his dark coat.

John smiled sweetly at her, “D-o-n-o-v-a-n, right? Sally? Is that Sally with a _y_ or Sally with an _ie_? Actually, don’t worry about it. I’m sure they’ll figure it out.” He had his ancient mobile out and was slowly thumbing in letters.

“Seriously though, who is this?” asked Anderson again, entirely confused. “What are you doing?”

“I just learned how to do this. It’s great. My old pals have been trying to help me figure this stuff out for ages. My sister gave me this mobile, it’s kind of shitty but it does the trick.” John’s texting skills were clearly unrefined. Everyone stood around him, frozen with indecision and confusion, and the longer it lasted the more embarrassed everyone seemed to get. Sherlock was delighted. John just stood there, a small frown on his face. He poked slowly at the screen, painstakingly constructing a message, his tongue caught in his teeth until he finally managed to send it off, “There. That should do it.”

“What did you just do?” Donovan looked uncomfortably concerned. Anderson was still swinging his head back and forth trying to grasp what was going on because no one was explaining anything.

“Watson, what did you do?” Lestrade was clearly trying to be calm and not succeeding very well.

“ _Doctor_ Watson, thank you very much.” snapped John sharply. “I did exactly what I said I’d do. I posted our conversation online. I was pretty clear about my intentions. So. Poison?”

“Indeed John.” Turning his back Sherlock processed the scene using his own techniques. In the background, he listened to the ongoing argument about John’s actions and had to stifle a laugh when Donovan’s mobile began to blare a series of suggestive advertisements on its own.

She was poking at the screen in an attempt to shut it off while John grinned, “I have no idea how they do that. Clever though, right?” He sounded proud, “They’re all terribly young but it’s amazing how loyal those kids can be when you’ve stitched their organs back into place or kept them from losing a limb. They end up being very grateful. They’re all crazy of course but that happens, they’re still good kids at heart. A decade or so in the army will set that right, look at me, _completely_ rehabilitated.”

Sherlock had to look at his lover. John was grinning at Donovan, and it was toothy and cold. Sherlock’s heart hammered in his chest as he gazed raptly at the man he was positive he was falling in love with, John glanced over to Sherlock and gave him a sassy wink, “ _High functioning sociopath_ , funny you said that, sweetheart. I didn’t realise we had so very much in common.” Now Lestrade joined Donovan, and Anderson, in staring at the soldier who’s grin didn’t change.

 _John, oh John_. “I’m _asking_ again later tonight.” Sherlock was smiling softly and turned his back on his lover to continue the Work. _Could it be true?_ He was eager to find out but first, the Work. With an irritated sigh Sherlock spotted a damp stain on the floor near the victim’s mouth and on closer inspection, he saw a small but very clear red dot, well, clear to him. It was fitted against a large mole on her neck, one of the several blemishes on her skin. _Even so, how had the needle mark even been missed? Had they looked at anything at all?_ Sherlock shook his head even as the factors came together inside his mind. _Syringe. Poison. Murder. John was right_.

“Fine, that’s all fine.” John was amiable again, completely relaxed, and now Sherlock understood. _His beautiful, perfect, dangerous, unstable, insane, marvellously wonderful John_. “We need to have a bit of a talk first but I think it will go well.” Sherlock was smiling broadly now and made sure to keep his body facing away from everyone.

“Ask what? What about sociopaths? What do you mean _poison_?” Anderson was doing his best to catch up, struggling to understand everything that was shifting around him on a second-by-second basis.

“Us. _Sociopaths_. We’re okay though. Sherlock’s got his problem clearly under control, and the army took care of me ages ago, no worries there. They even let me become a doctor! Amazing world, isn’t it?” It made perfect sense to Sherlock. _John would be implacable. He would be able to work in any war-zone, unfazed by the mayhem around him, unconcerned for his own personal safety because_ he _was the most dangerous thing around. Someone like him would be a huge advantage to any unit. That was the reason he’d been turned down at Bart’s. It had nothing to do with his abilities, or even his injuries, not even his PTSD_. Sherlock was an atheist but he begged the heavens to bless the moment he laid eyes on the celestial being that was John Watson.

“If anyone is interested in _the victim_ you’ll be relieved to know that Doctor Watson was entirely correct. Poison, administered by a syringe. Check the bins for evidence, whoever did this wasn’t planning on killing, it was done in the heat of the moment.” He stood up and cast a practised eye around the room once again. Shaking his head he walked over to the recycling bin. Pulling on a pair of gloves from one of his many pockets Sherlock poked around the clutter until he saw what he was looking for, “Anderson. You can’t do much but you can at least witness this.”

Anderson came over and peered inside. “There’s a _needle_ inside that can!”

Sherlock barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes, there is. It’s most likely the needle that delivered the fatal dose, and I’m guessing the rest of the syringe is in various receptacles around the flat.”

“Boyfriend.” John was just standing there and looking around with interest, “This flat is small but two people live here. She’s not got a ring on. Boyfriend. They must work for one of those pharmaceutical sample companies, look at their wall.”

There was a pinboard in the kitchen. On it, there was a complicated schedule of meetings around London. _Once again John was correct. A crime of opportunity made possible because of the work one or both partners did_. “Motivation?” _John was good, very good. Sherlock was interested in what the soldier would make of the scene_. He watched his lover carefully.

John was most certainly a predator and _not_ prey. That was clear to Sherlock at least. The way the soldier walked around the room, the way his eyes darted here and there, the way he collected his facts silently, dismissing anything irrelevant. He was nothing like Sherlock but at the same time, he could clearly see their similarities. _John was a broken thing, crudely shaped into a functional being but it was all a façade_. Suddenly Sherlock had a realisation. _John had been dancing at the club to not just physically rehabilitate, but to re-socialize himself and become reacquainted with the current shape and feel of society. He was brilliant, simply brilliant!_ _He’d figured out how to control himself and now Sherlock thought of John’s addiction. Danger. It was a problem he’d said_. Sherlock was thrilled. _Oh, John_.

“Infidelity.” John looked at the schedule closely, “Business meetings with a particular rep, all on days when the boyfriend was across the city.” He pointed to the timeline in front of them, “All extended meetings at restaurants attached to hotels. She was cheating.”

“Process the body. Check for toxins but also do a rape-kit, let’s see if we can identify the lover as well as the boyfriend. Where is he supposed to be now?” Sherlock watched as John glanced over the list before going to the refrigerator to look at the many photos displayed on it, “Him.” A tall brunet man with a wide open smile and brown happy eyes was seen standing behind an orange haired woman who clearly was the deceased. John read the notes posted on the schedule.

“According to this he’s out of the country and has been since yesterday.” John was snorting, “Bloody obvious that he changed the schedule after he did the deed. Look, most of it is in pencil. This bit has been erased, unlike other parts, there are indentations from what’s left of his old schedule. I’m betting he’s holed up in a hotel somewhere, waiting to fake coming home.”

“You seem pretty familiar with criminal behaviour.” said Donovan mistrustfully, “Suspiciously so.”

“You’re going to try and twist this so it looks like Sherlock and I did it, aren’t you?” John was giggling and he sounded precious. Sherlock’s heart was filled with joy. _John was so very perfect_. “High-functioning sociopaths would _not_ leave a syringe behind to be found. Give us at least that before you start pointing fingers in our direction. Also, this body has been here since early yesterday evening at least, and we were talking with Sherlock’s landlady at that time so you can ask her about our whereabouts if you need to force us to come up with an alibi. Trust me _, she was listening_.” John’s grin was almost filthy and Sherlock had to keep from snickering at the horror on Donovan’s face. “Also, Sherlock’s brother caught us in bed together so Lestrade, _your_ boyfriend _already_ knows about _his_ brother’s boyfriend. How’s that going anyway? Sherlock’s a treat in bed, is Mycroft?”

Lestrade’s mouth was flapping nearly as soundlessly as Donovan’s, and it took all of Sherlock’s willpower not to kiss John, drag him someplace private, and demand another lesson. Anderson was staring at Lestrade, “You’re dating Holmes’ _brother_? I thought you were straight?”

“Bisexual.” reported John, “Obvious, but then, it takes one to know one.” Another sassy wink was directed at Sherlock, “I love the ladies but there’s a lot to be said about just the right bloke.” Sherlock blushed delicately. _John. His name was music_. Lestrade’s mouth was hanging open but John was cheerfully relentless, “I can’t wait to meet the mum and dad, Sherlock’s taking me up this weekend.”

“Saturday, but then, you’ll be there too, won’t you _Gregory_?” Sherlock was having such a good day even if John had more or less solved the crime on his own. Sherlock sighed and decided he needed to pull his investigative weight so after a quick examination of the readily available facts he rattled off a series of potential locations for the boyfriend.

“Brilliant.” John’s eyes were bright with sincere admiration, the soldier openly gazing at Sherlock as if he were the only other person in the room. “That’s amazing.”

“Nonsense John, this was barely a four. Lestrade, your team is lazy. Why were we actually called in?” A particular expression crossed the DI’s face, “I see. My brother asked you to step in didn’t he. He didn’t tell you why?”

“You love coming on cases.” Lestrade had clearly been used by Mycroft. _Again_. Sherlock was both pleased that he’d figured it out, and disgusted with his brother for using his own lover to try and manipulate him, but it wasn’t the first time. Often Sherlock wondered if Mycroft’s attachment to Lestrade had more to do with the DI’s usefulness in keeping him occupied than it was because the man had qualities that the government official could not live without. Lestrade was obviously coming to the same conclusion, “That fucker.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock didn’t need to say more.

John noticed, “I can rough him up for you if you want. I gave him a bit of a hello yesterday.” John’s offer was sincere as was everything about him, “We can discuss it over a pint some night. I bet you know all the good pubs.” Again, nothing but pure sincerity and Lestrade nodded silently.

“Not tonight. We have _lessons_ tonight.” Sherlock wasn’t letting John go off to get drunk with Lestrade. They had sex to work on.

“Excellent point Sherlock, some other night Greg, we’ll find one of those quiz nights, I love those.” John came to stand beside Sherlock, “So, can we chase this killer fuck down so I can kick some arse or what?”

“You _will_ say yes tonight?” demanded Sherlock in an answer.

“Probably, but _arse-kicking_ , are we doing that? I’m in a bit of a mood.” John’s expression was eager and Sherlock didn’t even try to stop himself from bending down and kissing John’s forehead, “Aw, thank you! You’re so sweet.”

“Let’s go, John, I think I know where to find our intrepid murderer.” John took Sherlock’s hand, and ignoring everyone else they left the small flat, and giggling together they made their way to the street. Sherlock flagged down another cab and soon they were going from hotel to hotel. It took four different attempts but Sherlock’s hunch had paid off. _There were only a few hotels in the area that accepted cash for rentals and did not record a credit card for deposit. If the boyfriend was trying to hide, he’d likely choose one of those places since he would be familiar with the area. He had_.

The picture they had of him showed he was a tall muscular man, but clearly, he’d worked out plenty since that photo had been taken. A brief argument at the desk resulted in Sherlock convincing the concierge that time was of the essence, and after giving her Lestrade’s number he took the magnetic key she proffered and led John right to the door. “Who are you?” he demanded when Sherlock pushed his way into the room.

“Your girlfriend isn’t looking so good mate.” John was cold again. He was still smiling but it was as icy as his eyes, “You left her there on the floor, poor sweet lass. How old was she? Not even thirty and you did her in. Why?”

The man blanched before he rallied, “I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh yes you did,” said John calmly. Sherlock simply stood in the doorway and watched. “You got angry. You dug through your samples until you came up with something that would work. You chose a needle and filled it. You waited until she was at her most vulnerable and then you betrayed her the way she betrayed you. There’s no use denying it. We have all the evidence. The police are on their way. If they move fast enough they’ll get here in time to arrest you. Otherwise, I’m thinking a body bag would suit you very nicely.”

Sherlock was smiling but he didn’t want John to end up in jail for murder, “Prison orange would be best.”

John sighed regretfully, “I know, my love, I know. It’s all dreadfully easy though, isn’t it?” At this point, the boyfriend’s nerve snapped. With a shout he hurled himself at Sherlock, trying to barrel his way into the hallway but John was fast, so very fast. With barely a blink the soldier was between the man and Sherlock, his fist already mid-strike against the man’s abdomen. A meaty thud could be heard and then the man staggered backwards. He shook his head and swung wildly at John who ducked easily, “Now now little boy, you have no idea. Give up. Just stop. You’re going to jail, that’s happening. Attacking me is just asking for a lot of unnecessary pain. Stop. Please.” John’s voice was calm and cool, almost soft and concerned, and it incensed the man to rage.

“I’m going to kill you!” Sherlock didn’t move. He was watching John. The boyfriend snatched up an empty wine bottle and dramatically broke it against the wardrobe so the end was jagged and sharp looking. A moment of concern shot through the detective until John’s entire being morphed once again from the sweet amiable person he always appeared to be back into the deliberate killer that he actually was. _John was magnificent_.

“That would have been more useful as a blunt instrument. It’s amazing what you can do without breaking skin. Watch.” It took no time at all. Every hit was precise. John caused the maximum amount of pain with the least amount of damage. He didn’t disarm the man, he didn’t even try to. Instead, he danced in and out of the man’s defensive regions, landing punch after punch, narrowly missing being sliced by the glass over and over again, but his eyes were twinkling even while his face remained focused and calm. When the much larger man was on his knees John stopped, “We’ll just wait for the police now, alright?”

Sherlock checked his mobile, “They’re downstairs.” It would only be a minute or so.

“Good. I’m feeling peckish now. How about a walk in the park after? We can breakfast by the pond, what do you think sweetheart?” _John was asking him out for a breakfast date after beating a man nearly a foot taller than he was to his knees_. He looked sweetly hopeful as if there were the slightest chance in hell that Sherlock would turn him down.

 Lightly flushed he answered, “That sounds lovely John. We’ll just wait for Lestrade to come clean up.” _Sherlock was dazzled. He was swept off his feet. He had never once in his entire existence ever once considered that someone as sublime as John Watson could possibly be_. “There’s a lovely kiosk we can get coffee from.” He was flirting with John and it was making the soldier smile.

“Perfect. We left our mugs in the cab.” _They had. Oh well. The Homeless Network would return them_. Sherlock’s network of eyes and ears extended in a complicated tangle over all sorts of places, and one way or another his often discarded or misplaced possessions wound their way back at Baker Street where Mrs Hudson would accept them after handing out fresh baking and probably forcing the person to stay for tea, which wasn’t the worst way to spend some time. Sherlock was lavish with his tips and kept a large population of people well supplied with a steady income. His family was old money and he despised the inequity. Rebellious as always he did what he could to defray the width of that divide, caring for those who were otherwise ignored because they were not only useful but interesting as well. Sherlock had always been drawn to madness, and now he had John.

The man looked up at them, “This is police brutality.” He was wheezing and he looked pained but apart from being sweaty and flushed there wasn’t a mark on him that wasn’t rapidly fading. _John was masterful, an artist_.

“We aren’t police. He’s a consulting detective. I’m his bodyguard. You tried to harm his body. It’s in my job description to not let that happen.” John was grinning and he looked very satisfied. _Lestrade could not get here fast enough._

The man looked stunned, “What?” He got no further than that. Donovan was at the entrance now, Lestrade right behind her. No matter how hard she scowled she couldn’t deny that the man wasn’t where he said he was supposed to be, and that despite the inadvisability of confessing to a room full of detectives and police the man was babbling out his confession in hurried words, desperate to be kept safely inside a jail cell and away from John. “Take me in.” He begged.

John stood there, quietly patient as things proceeded around him. Sherlock was impatient to get going and with some agitation urged Lestrade to let them leave. John eventually cornered the DI without moving, a manoeuvre Sherlock wanted to learn, “We’re heading out now. You don’t actually need us here, right?”

The silver-haired man was clearly loathed to let them simply walk away with all his unasked questions still pending, “We’ll need your statements.”

“Tomorrow.” Sherlock was so done. He wanted time alone with John and no amount of paperwork was going to prevent that from happening. “We’re going.”

“Ta Greg, we’ll get in touch about that pub, yeah?” John nearly pushed Sherlock out the door, “Off we go, love, I’m hungry.”

“You eat a great deal.” Sherlock actually rather enjoyed watching John eat. There was such enjoyment and appreciation. John knew what he liked and he obviously planned to enjoy everything to the fullest whenever he could.

“I need lots of energy for all the sex we’re going to have.” John’s hand was most definitely on his behind and his caress was meaningful. “So, coffee, Mrs Hudson’s lunch, and then home for some hot sweaty fun, how’s that for a plan?”

 _Sherlock was not blushing. He did not blush!_ With heated cheeks and a demure tone he answered, “I think that’s acceptable John.” With a cheeky grin, John offered his arm and let Sherlock lead him away to a nearby park. They could catch a cab home after but for now they were off to share a picnic meal with one another and John had bloody knuckles. _How romantic_.


	5. Skills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are both talented men who appreciate all the things their lover can do.

 

It was beyond romantic. Someone took exception to their rather modest, in Sherlock’s opinion at least, displays of public affection, and proceeded to pick a fight with John who was still feeling scrappy. Sherlock watched as his lover cheerfully kicked around two of the three young men, all of whom were worse for drink and probably a number of unwise choices in street drugs, who had hurled homophobic insults at the pair. “This is the perfect day.” sighed the soldier as he watched them scamper away bleeding only lightly, “It’s lovely out this time of the morning.”

John found them a bench that was dry and near the pond, and rather naughtily managed to retrieve all their food whilst chattering innocently the way he was able to do even as his diabolically fast fingers probed and touched, teasing and tormenting the detective until their meal was spread out on Sherlock’s scarf, steaming cups of coffee scenting the air with their richness. Each sandwich was savory and filling, and John kissed the crumbs from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and gazed at him with shining eyes while they talked. John was curious about everything, constantly amazed with Sherlock’s on-demand knowledge, questioning everything around them until Sherlock realized they’d been talking for nearly two hours, their coffees long since done, and the crumbs consumed by birds and ducks alike. It was still mid-morning, “Home?” said John with the same sweet smile.

“Yes John.” The soldier took his hand and led him back to the street where a taxi was rapidly procured. The ride home was full of giggles as John made Sherlock quickly deduce the people they were driving past, the traffic keeping their vehicle from traveling at any speed. John’s giggle was as addictive as the first time he’d heard it, and Sherlock was pleased he was able to entertain his lover so easily. No one else found spending time with him to be even slightly enjoyable. John couldn’t seem to get enough.

“Martha, we’re back!” John rapped on their landlady’s door the second they arrived but there was no answer, “Perfect. Upstairs my angel, you’ve made me wait long enough.”

“John!” exclaimed Sherlock, entirely bashful for some reason. _That wasn’t logical at all!_

“Look at you blush. You examined a dead body without turning a hair but now you’re…come here.” John kissed Sherlock until his knees were weak. He’d heard of the phrase but until now he’d never experienced the sensation of struggling to stand because his body was so filled with delightful feelings it wasn’t working right. “My beautiful man, upstairs Sherlock.”

John let him recover his composure in the loo where Sherlock brushed his teeth and washed his face. They were going to do something _sexual_ and suddenly Sherlock realized he was self-conscious, “John I’m taking a shower.”

“Me too. Hurry up.” _Oh my_. Sherlock’s fertile mind conjured up a very accurate image of the soldier and mentally inserted him into the archaic shower, green tiles and all, and then once again John was perfect, “Unless you want to share that is.”

“We can share.” _Oh yes. Yes please_. Sherlock got the water going and John was there only a minute later, old robe in hand and wicked grin in place, “Hello.”

“Hello to you.” John’s grin only grew naughtier and Sherlock tried not to react to it but he did, “I’m never getting tired of that blush, gorgeous.”

“Stop it John.” He found he was smiling because John’s grin was _very_ complimentary. The soldier looked hungry once again, and Sherlock knew _he_ was the one that the man had chosen to sate himself with. _Oh John_.

“I doubt it, my angel.” John stepped closer, “Let’s get naked.”

“Be serious John.” He was saying the drollest things and Sherlock both cringed and hoped he wouldn’t stop. That didn’t stop him from doing as he was told and removing every last stitch on him.

“I am _deadly_ serious. I want to see you naked and soaking wet.” The hunger inside the soldier was undisguised now, “I can’t wait to run my hands all over you and just…get under the water Sherlock.”

 _Order obeyed_. Without resistance Sherlock stepped under the steaming hot spray and let it soak his curls down. John stood there, his mouth open a bit, and his body already beginning to display signs of obvious interest, “Like this?”

“Bloody hell.” John was swallowing hard and just standing there, “I just…”

“Care to join me John?” Sherlock found it easy to smile invitingly at the soldier, so easy to reach one long arm out languidly to draw the man close to him, “Better?” he asked when they were only an inch or two apart.” Suddenly all the shyness was gone. All he wanted was John to be as close as possible.

John was silent for several moments, his eyes ranging up and down Sherlock’s body as much as he could. “A dream,” he said softly, his voice almost reverent. “A perfect dream, that’s what you are. It’s like someone plucked every single thing that turns me on right out of my head and named them _Sherlock Holmes_.”

 _It felt like a dream_. John kissed him yet again and once more Sherlock found himself melting from the inside out, his bones becoming liquid fire as he yielded entirely. John had managed to procure a soapy flannel and was washing both of them together in a careless yet surprisingly efficient manner. Should soap and cotton feel so sensual? John was almost delicate when he washed Sherlock’s hair, reaching up and pressing their bodies tightly together, allowing their hips to slide back and forth against each other as the warm suds rinsed downward in a bubbly streaks. Stubble had blossomed all over John’s chest and even his belly. Even with waxing it was returning at a rapid pace. It rasped weirdly against Sherlock’s skin, making him even more aware of the heat of John’s flesh. _So much sensation. What would it be like when John’s body-hair finally grew back?_ The soldier made him tilt his head back under the spray to rinse, making Sherlock sigh softly when John trailed his fingertips down Sherlock’s exposed throat. By the time he was clean from head to toe Sherlock tingled everywhere and he was fully aroused. “ _Please_ John.” The first words he’d managed to utter were heavy with desire, rumbling and deep. He didn’t know what he wanted but the strange tension in his hips was back as was the ache low in his belly.

“That _voice_.” muttered the soldier, “I’ve never heard anything like it.” The soldier shut the water off quickly, harshly twisting the taps so he could lead Sherlock out to dry him off. Kisses were exchanged without words but with many sounds of appreciation, then John broke away, “I want to do something.”

 _Anything. John could do anything_. “What?” Sherlock’s body simple trembled with tension. His cock was hard, his foreskin pulled back to reveal the shining head. He wanted more with John, more skin-on-skin contact, _something_.

It seemed the soldier had the same idea, “Robe _on_ , my love.” John’s smile was wicked once more and to Sherlock’s dismay he went to the bedroom and got partially dressed. It was _mouth-watering_. John put on a pair of red cotton briefs. They had white trim, and they did absolutely nothing to disguise the rigid girth of him. After that John slipped into a pair of much-used army trousers that were strangely patterned. Sherlock recognized the attempt to provide camouflage and decided it must work to a degree because scar or not, John Watson was still here. “Sit here.” Sherlock was made to sit on the edge of his bed while John dug through his meagre possessions. He extracted a CD and popped it into the expensive system Sherlock kept in his room, and that was normally used when he wanted to lose himself in the classics which brought him peace. Now it was beating out something that seemed to be mostly bass, and was accompanied by rhythmic arrangements of synthetic sounds, “I’ve practiced to do this but never got a chance.”

 _John. Oh my_ …Sherlock’s brain shorted-out for a fraction of a second when John raised his arms and pivoted on the balls of his feet. A twist of his hips signaled the beginning and then John began to dance for Sherlock.

He realized his mouth was hanging open. He couldn’t close it. He realized he was holding his breath. He didn’t care. _Air was over-rated_. He knew he was staring but how could he tear his gaze away. _John. Magnificent, amazing, astonishing John_. The _things_ he could do with his hips! The way he twisted and dropped, his leg not troubling him in the least as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the muscles beneath his skin rippling as he danced.

After a few long moments where he’d clearly merely been warming up John somehow used the tones between one beat and the next to almost slide across the floor to stand between Sherlock’s wide-spread knees. John kept dancing, his beautiful back now presented gorgeously, his torso twisting this way and that as he moved in time with the music. Suddenly he dropped down and the swirl of his hips brushed his behind lightly against the inside of Sherlock’s upper thighs in a smooth arc, just close enough to his erection that he could feel the heat of John’s body.

It was _electrifying_.

John did it again, but in reverse, smoothly changing the direction of his gyrations to tease Sherlock all over again and it was just as effective the second time. The soldier was into it now, his dance smooth and seductive, well-practised, and so hot that Sherlock could barely cogitate effectively. Sherlock suddenly could not stop taking in every single detail about the man in front of him from the slight fraying at the hem of his left leg, to the way the muscles of John’s lower back dipped enticingly, and how a bead of sweat was trickling down John’s chest, just begging to be licked.

John didn’t let him.

Instead the soldier tormented him, dancing, teasing, barely touching him but letting him become sensitised to his mere presence until Sherlock thought he was going to lose his mind from want. John’s hips swirled and swirled, the hard globes of his arse ghosting over the fabric of Sherlock’s robe, the fine hairs of his legs registering every faint contact, making him ache more and more with each moment that passed.

John stepped back and Sherlock found he’d groaned loudly in frustrated disappointment. The soldier gave him a knowing smile and a devilish wink, hooking his thumbs into his waist-band, flicking them open almost carelessly.

John took his trousers off.

That’s what he did but that’s not what he did. John _shimmied_. John _undulated_. John did things with his mid-section and hips Sherlock would not have been able to credit if he was not witnessing it with his own eyes. He was blatant, dipping his hand into his pants more than once, closing his eyes and clearly enjoying the feel of his own hardness as he kept dancing. When the damnable trousers were finally gone John _tortured_ Sherlock.

He touched himself. John ran his fingertips over his own chest and nipples and Sherlock watched as they hardened. He twisted around and let Sherlock watch as he spread his hands over his perfect behind, the red fabric almost obscenely tight. John tugged them down a bit so Sherlock could see more of his cleft, but twisted around again to boldly fondle himself once more, his actions somewhat obscured by the thin cotton. Sherlock whimpered.

John was dripping wet. A large patch of damp was spreading near his hip where the end of his cock strained against its confines. He didn’t stop dancing. Now he moved back between Sherlock’s thighs and danced once again, only now the heat of their skin was that much more intense, the faint brush of his body that much _more_ electric, and Sherlock realized he was moaning softly, “That’s what I want.” John’s voice was as hot as his eyes, his own arousal starkly evident, “Lean back a bit, my angel, you’ll enjoy this.”

Sherlock once again obeyed without question, simply resting himself on his arms as he leaned back further onto the bed. His cock was jutting up and impatiently he sat back up and rid himself of the robe. It was hiding nothing and he certainly didn’t require it to keep him warm. His entire body was already dotted with sweat and John had barely touched him. The second he was back in place John used his legs to knock Sherlock’s knees together, and then John danced himself right onto Sherlock’s lap. He knelt over Sherlock, his knees spread to park themselves firmly on either side of Sherlock’s hips but now John’s red pants were able to touch and brush directly against Sherlock’s testicles and erection.

 _Erotic dancer not exotic. This was definitely erotic dancing_. Sherlock previously had no idea what true desire felt like, what lust felt like, but now he did. Sherlock _lusted_ for John, wanted to take him, pleasure him, _something_. John wouldn’t let him. Instead he made Sherlock keep his hands on the bed and continued shimmying and twisting, their bodies beginning to slide and grind together so gently Sherlock almost wasn’t sure at first.

He became sure a minute later when John deliberately brought their erections together, pressing his cotton-covered hardness directly against Sherlock’s. The short sharp jerks of his hips worked him all the way down Sherlock’s shaft before John arched his back, canted his hips, and slid himself right back to the top of Sherlock’s engorged cock. He did it twice more, all in time with the music, and Sherlock was losing his mind. Both of them groaned and then John was tugging at his own waist-band, his motions not so practiced. He stood quickly and without teasing for a moment he shucked them off before resuming his position over Sherlock.

Their balls touched. John shimmied back into place and with one gentle twist of his hips he brought their flesh together and Sherlock could not stop himself from grabbing John’s hips but the soldier didn’t seem to mind, “Yeah love, I like that. What beautiful hands you have.” John’s hips didn’t stop. Once again he rubbed himself up and down Sherlock’s shaft in hard deliberate jerks timed with the music, his hips snapping sharply, the moves well-coordinated to the beat. Each movement made Sherlock groan softly, the sensation so blatantly sexual, there was no denying that John knew _exactly_ what he was doing and how to do it. The music played on and filled the room with the cadence of their love-play. Each twist was beautiful torment. Each graze of skin was bitter bliss. Sherlock realized his hips were rocking upward in time with John’s, “Fucking sexy.”

John kissed him. It was like being drugged, all his limbs heavy once more as his brain dumped a cascade of delightful messages into his bloodstream, all of which he listened to eagerly. John used the music still but now he was shamelessly rutting against Sherlock’s belly and cock, their mutual wetness enough to keep the friction from being unpleasant.

The music caught them both. The pulse of it drove them. Sherlock’s body moved in time with John’s, their flat stomachs and hard cocks meeting and parting over and over again as they lost themselves to the feeling. Over and over again the shocking but delicious pleasure of John’s hardness against his caused that inner heat and tightness to grow larger and larger until he was huffing out panting groans with every breath, anxious for something that was beginning to feel impossibly out of reach.

John licked a wet strip over the palm of his hand and gathered their cocks together, lining them up, fucking himself against Sherlock’s, holding him in place while he took him apart. Sherlock was losing his mind. The sensation was almost too intense, too sharp, but at the same time the bitter-sweetness of it was perfect, just what he craved, that almost painful edge where relief was so close but denying it one moment more, and then another, and then another because you didn’t want it to be over.

John resumed dancing. The stimulation was more than Sherlock could deal with and he felt his body begin to tighten up everywhere, his skin felt like it was burning hot, his brow was dripping with sweat, and his fingers were digging into John’s hips, yanking him closer, grinding John against him. John took control, “None of that my boy, we’re not done until I say we’re done, and we are _far_ from done.”

John yanked Sherlock’s hands away and pushed him flat onto his back, “I’m going to come in your mouth and then I’m going to go down on you and suck you off.” There weren’t options being offered but Sherlock hardly felt hard-done by.

“Yes.”

“Good boy.”

John tangled one hand in Sherlock’s hair and maneuvered himself so his hips were in line with Sherlock’s face, his hand moving rapidly up and down his heavy shaft. Sherlock watched in fascination as it seemed to grow darker, measuring the pace and intensity of John’s strokes, memorizing everything he could as John brought himself off.

This time Sherlock could not stop watching John’s cock. It throbbed. A thick white jet of come sprayed out as John’s deep grunts cut out the sounds of the music. Sherlock felt the hot drip against his cheek, over his lips, and belatedly he opened his mouth, obediently allowing John to continue stroking himself, his cockhead pressed to Sherlock’s lower lip as he finished himself. The taste was as strong as he suspected but he enjoyed it, mapping the texture of John’s crown as he licked, relishing the fact that John was still groaning deeply, that the soldier’s eyes were nearly burning still despite his release, “Nearly perfect.” rasped the soldier.

John kept Sherlock on his back but knelt back between his knees, still breathing hard, his damp cock hanging between his legs. Without another word John ran his tongue over Sherlock’s cock from his over-full testicles all the way to his flared head. With a swirl of his tongue John proceeded to take Sherlock into his mouth, hungrily sucking him in while his small hand began to pump his shaft.

That was all it took. His transport was reacting as it would. Sherlock’s cry was loud and heartfelt as his back arched and twisted, his fingers clutching at the bedding as his orgasm took control of everything. Each throb was magnificent. Each jolt of bliss was euphoric. Every inch of his body simply exploded with delight. He felt John swallowing over and over again as he came, the hotness of his mouth and the flexing softness of his tongue coaxing Sherlock to release completely, not letting a single drop escape him. Sherlock found his fingers had loosed the bedding and were carding gently through John’s short hair, almost petting the man who kept moving until Sherlock finally collapsed onto his pillow, his chest heaving, his body completely lax. John sat back on his heels and gazed down at him. “Perfectly debauched.” said the soldier with great satisfaction, “You look just _perfect,_ my sweet love.”

Sherlock felt perfect. He felt blissed out and marvelous. Every inch of him felt alive and wonderful, right from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. He was a gorgeous mess and he loved it. John didn’t seem to expect him to answer and let Sherlock lay there for a minute while the doctor got the shower going again. Sherlock got to experience John practically glowing with satisfaction as he scrubbed them both down, his soft smile content as he washed them clean of the sweat and come that they’d worked so hard to produce. He should be exhausted but instead Sherlock felt invigorated and filled with energy. When they were clean and dry once again John looked at the wreck of a bed and sighed, “Pyjamas and robe, my angel.”

“Yes John.” Without a hint of reluctance Sherlock fished out a set of pyjamas and dressed himself while John tugged on his tattered robe and stripped the bedding to be washed. He realized that John was ordering him about but he honestly preferred wearing his pajamas, and he hated housework so really he wasn’t _obeying_ John, he was just doing what they both wanted to do and that was fine. _The man loved to dote, he’d said so himself, let him dote then_! Re-making it all in a trice John was practically whistling happily as he settled Sherlock onto the sofa, putting the kettle on before he ran the load of laundry down to the basement flat where Sherlock told him Mrs. Hudson kept the washer and dryer. The soldier was chipper and made it down and back again just as the kettle went off, brewing two large cups of tea, and inspecting the their food for lunch possibilities, “I’m not hungry.”

“Then I’ll cook for myself, and you can have a bite or two.” John was perfectly accommodating. “You ate a lot today and if Mrs. Hudson’s comment is anything to go by you don’t need a lot of food to get by, am I right?”

“Yes. One meal a day seems to be more than enough.” Truly he didn’t feel hungry but whatever it was that John was beginning to cook smelled interesting. While his lover was occupied Sherlock went online and shopped. He ordered everything on his mental list that had to do with the flat, organising deliveries from all over London, hiring members of his homeless network to fetch the smaller things to Baker Street, and obtaining the assistance of certain people with moving vans who didn’t have legitimate mover’s businesses but could manage those services at the drop of a hat, or in this case, another large tip. He had to force himself to focus, still dazed with the aftermath of what they’d just done together, and almost unable to put the memory of John dancing out of his mind enough to focus on the simple tasks of ordering the correct bedding to go with his new incoming mattress. By the time he was done several thousand pounds had been expended, every note of it worthwhile. Sending a text to Mrs. Hudson about imminent arrivals he returned to paying attention to John who was puttering at maximum.

“Almost done, my pet.” John looked and sounded happy as well as content. “Just a fry-up but it seems to be turning out alright.” Sherlock was surprised to hear his stomach rumbling. “I made extra just in case.” With a wink John served them both up, a full plate each and with gusto they dug in. Sherlock was shocked to discover how large his appetite was. He managed to finish everything John had given him and by the time they were done their meal he was pleasantly full and still very relaxed.

“Would you like to go out John? I’d like to take care of some things while certain shops are still open.” Sherlock had other things for John he wanted to get, things John should have, and Sherlock wanted to be the one who gave it to the soldier. Already he was covetous of John, all of John was his, even his clothing choices and for a moment he realized he was being a tad too over-zealous.

John just shrugged, “Okay sweetheart, whatever you’d like. I’m yours.” _Oh John. He always said the perfect thing,_ “I need to pick up a few things anyway, I hope you don’t mind shopping for clothes.”

“I’m glad you said that.” Without further word Sherlock got himself ready, hustled John into his coat and shoes, nearly tripping the soldier down the stairs in his haste to get to the street but John just laughed and went along easily, not minding when Sherlock almost shoved him into the cab, “We have several stops to make.” Was all he said but John just shrugged and held Sherlock’s hand as he gazed out the window at London.

The first place Sherlock brought John didn’t even have a name on the front. It was a door next to a small glass case that had a display of a single jacket. John looked puzzled but Sherlock went inside, “Reynold.” The name was all he needed to gain the attention of the bored looking woman who sat at a small high desk that dominated the tiny receiving area. She looking him up and down, and then looked at John, her expression becoming amused, “Do not test my good-will. _Reynold_. Now.”

The amused look dropped away and she became haughty. Picking up a receiver she spoke quickly to someone, quickly describing Sherlock as _a curly haired toff in an outdated Belstaff_ to which the voice at the other end became sharp and rather loud, “Reynold will see you now.” She said in a soft respectful voice, “Right this way sirs.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” Sherlock didn’t need her to show him how to find the man in question. Indeed there was only one short corridor behind the desk and then they were in a long narrow room where a slight, very dapper, very neat, dark-haired little man was clasping his hands to his chest and beaming happily, “Reynold.”

“My dear Sherlock!” the little man came over and air-kissed Sherlock’s cheeks, “So good of you to come by my humble shop.” There were rolls of expensive material and threads everywhere. A long table and various machines on benches were set around the space and overhead long wooden rods held partially constructed clothes on hangers.

“It’s so humble that you don’t even need to advertise,” he said dryly, “I’m calling in my favor.”

The small man looked relieved, “At last. I assume _this_ is whom the favor will be spent on. Greetings, I’m always happy to meet a soldier.” Reynold was eyeing John with vast appreciation and Sherlock didn’t like it.

“ _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_.” recited John with a wink. “Hello Reynold, I’m John Watson.” He shook Reynold’s eagerly proffered hand, “I’m Sherlock’s boyfriend, we live together.” Sherlock was satisfied as John then furthered his assurances by standing even closer to Sherlock, and even putting his arm around Sherlock’s waist. “What favor?”

Reynold made a moue of disappointment for only a moment, “All the pretty ones are always taken.” He sighed dramatically, “Mr. Holmes was kind enough to prove that I was most certainly not a sexual predator that was active in the neighborhood I used to live in. Despite his proof though my reputation was tarnished so he managed to find me this place and introduced me to my first clients. Now I am secure and successful, and it’s all because of Sherlock Holmes. How may I repay that very great favor, Mr. Holmes?”

Reynold was now all business and again Sherlock was greatly satisfied. John was blatantly his, and now he could get his lover whatever he needed by way of formal clothing, “John will need suits. He’s a doctor, he will need semi-formal clothes to practice in, but we’ll also need various suits for formal events. You know how the family is. It’s too late for this week since we’re going to the manor on Saturday, but after that there will be other engagements to tend to. He needs to be outfitted accordingly.”

Reynold looked disappointed, “That’s it? One _trousseau_ for your doctor and that’s _all_ I owe you?” John looked stunned. A single garment from this shop would be worth hundreds of pounds at the cheapest. An entire wardrobe would be staggeringly expensive. Sherlock didn’t bat an eye. Even if Reynold charged him for every stitch he’d still get John what he needed. “Well, at least let me begin by replacing what he’s got on. Come along _Doctor Soldier_. Let’s get you measured.”

“It’s not a _trousseau_.” Sherlock frowned _. John was to be treated with respect. He wasn’t a girl on the eve of her wedding!_

Reynold winked, “Oh isn’t it?” he said and wiggled his eyebrows. Sherlock blushed.

“I never get tired of that.” said John with a smile.

Reynold looked stunned but happy, “Oh _it’s true_!” and then he stopped talking, clearly keeping his happy words to himself but fluttering around digging through racks of things as he pulled out one mass of fabric after another, “It will be a bit of a rush but I can at least get you proper trousers and so forth before you leave.” Reynold made his selections then tinkled a tiny bell and the long narrow room became a busy place.

Assistants poured in from the far end, standing John on a small plinth, measuring him every way they could think of while Reynold perched on a tall chair, hand sewing something while everyone else milled about in well-practiced synchronicity. Tea was served at one point, and when John got hungry a couple of hours later, sandwiches were procured, but the flurry of needles and scissors did not end for a moment. John had no problem standing there in front of everyone in just his pants, currently a black pair as the red ones were now in the laundry. Sherlock enjoyed everything from a comfortable chair off to the side, watching John’s new wardrobe slowly assemble as they chose piece after piece, noting alterations and fits in a detailed file that now existed for John’s benefit. The discussion ranged from John’s opinions on waistcoats, to socks, and even to undergarments to which Sherlock cleared his throat meaningfully, and Reynold changed his questions to exterior-wear. The shop had officially closed before John was allowed to fully dress once more, now wearing dark trousers that complimented his frame, as well as a well-fitted shirt with faintly gleaming buttons, casual but appropriate for any decent restaurant or occasion in town that didn’t outright require full formal-wear. He was holding a small bag with extra shirts in it, and a promise that other clothing would be delivered as they were completed. He had a pre-made suit that was being altered for him so Saturday morning was scheduled for a last minute check before they left to meet Sherlock’s family.

Sherlock then surprised John further by taking him to get shoes though the hour was late in the business day. Another favor was repaid by a woman who did very specialized custom work, and John walked out with a pair of dark leather shoes with deep treads, and various other hidden assets. More footwear had been purchased, and all of it would be delivered to Baker Street the very next morning since Sherlock didn’t feel like hauling around boots and shoes.

The final stop was _mandatory_ and before they went inside Sherlock looked down into John’s smiling face and said, “I want you to marry me. Will you?” _No one else could have John. He would bind the man to him in any way possible_. Sherlock didn’t have to wait more than a brief moment to learn the answer.

“I will.” John didn’t hesitate, “When?” John had accepted his proposal even though he’d done it right out in the street while strangers flowed past them, and the smell of traffic made the air sharp and almost rough. The soldier’s eyes were shining though, and Sherlock loved how bright he felt inside right then.

“We have to wait a month by law.” Sherlock had quickly looked up the step-by-step guide on the legalities while he waited for John’s fittings to be accomplished. He hesitated, “You understand that I’m being serious and I want to have you with me forever?”

“I understand _and_ I agree. I will marry you Sherlock. I’d be a fool not to. Not many men get proposed to by angels. Of course I’m saying yes.” That was all Sherlock needed to hear. He checked the item off his mental list, took his _fiancé_ by the hand, and led him inside a jewelry shop. Sherlock made John go through every single display though the soldier found a ring he liked on the second tray, and in the end it was the pair they chose. John took Sherlock’s ring right out of its small fancy box, held Sherlock’s left hand in his and said, “I, John Hamish Watson, solemnly promise to wed you, Sherlock Holmes, on the day of your choosing. I’m yours Sherlock, entirely.” He slid the ring on firmly.

 _That was much more romantic than what Sherlock had said. He really needed to work on how he spoke to his fiancé. He didn’t want John to ever feel that he didn’t think highly enough of him to come up with appropriate responses_. Pushing John’s ring onto the correct finger Sherlock softly said, “I hope you understand the same goes for me.” _He was._ Sherlock was John’s entirely. No one else could possibly ever measure up to the astonishing man who now wore his ring. _He’d do anything to keep John happy, to just keep John_. “May I take you out for dinner John?” His fiancé looked very handsome in his new clothes and Sherlock vaguely thought that some sort of celebratory activity should be undertaken.

“No my love. I want to go home so we can fuck.” _Well, if that’s what John wanted_. Sherlock smiled and nodded, enjoying the rascally grin on his lover’s face, “Let’s go Sherlock. Time for another lesson.”

Learning was such fun.

 


	6. Getting Settled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have enjoyed the most perfect of days. What better way to enjoy the rest of it than a quiet evening in with just each other?

They arrived on Baker Street to find controlled chaos going on. Sherlock had entirely forgotten his earlier shopping spree. Since he’d extravagantly paid for rush delivery on everything the foyer was now filled with parcels, and the stairwell was jammed with two men trying to haul a large mattress up its narrow width. Mrs Hudson was at the bottom, her hands wringing with worry as she eyed the portraits on the wall and the ancient paper that was in danger of being scuffed and torn. Sherlock blinked, “Drop the upper right corner two degrees, twist the bottom left corner down similarly and hold it there.” Surprised the movers did as they were told and suddenly the mattress fit neatly into the space around it and was carried into the flat without trouble. Mrs Hudson left, simply telling them she was off to visit Mrs Turner and wouldn’t be back until later.

“Brilliant, my genius.” John was beaming and looking around curiously, “What’s all this then?”

“We needed a few things.” hedged Sherlock. _He might have gone overboard_. There was new _everything_ stacked in the small space. John followed him upstairs and took control of the move, “Get rid of the old one.” John led the movers to the bedroom, stripping the old mattress of all its bedding, and standing there calmly, overseeing everything with cool efficiency. Sherlock sat on the sofa and in between orders John made him tea and brought him biscuits.

The movers hauled the old mattress out to their van before bringing up everything else that had been dropped off and taking away everything large that was being replaced. John was very pleased with all of it, chivvying the men to move things here or there, and after a while, there was finally just the two of them and a small tower of parcels and boxes. John looked amused, “So?” he asked, nodding his head toward the largess. “Care to explain?”

Sherlock was discomfited. He’d been so love-dazed after the lap-dance that he’d been incapable of restraining himself even a little, “You needed a new bathrobe.” he explained weakly. There were two now, one a deep blue so dark it was almost black, plush and soft, the other almost identical but in a mossy green that suited John’s complexion.

“Well, that’s true. Thank you, my love, my old one is a bit tatty. What about the microwave, the other one still works.” _Yes, it did_ , “Or the kettle, or the stack of million thread count sheets, or those towels that look like something the Queen uses, or…” John was clearly accustomed to living a spare and frugal life.

“We need _all_ of these things.” protested Sherlock at last, “I microwave _human_ body parts, you shouldn’t have to use the same appliance to heat your food with! The sheets were a bit extravagant I admit but they’ll last for years, the towels are the same. I wanted to get you these things so you would be as comfortable as possible, and wish to remain.”

There were more than towels. All of John’s new possessions ranged from new pots and pans to a gleaming and deadly sharp straight-razor that made the soldier grin wickedly, “Well I’m not saying send it all back, I was just wondering.” He gazed around, “You’re filthy rich, aren’t you.” The kitchen would sparkle with all of John’s new things, their bedroom would need quite a bit of re-arranging and shifting in order to accommodate all the rest, but Sherlock had made up his mind and even if his possessions had to be packed away to make room for John it wasn’t a bit of bother, and Sherlock would do it. John’s face was finally showing a bit of discomfort and Sherlock considered the question he’d been asked.

 _There was no way to hide it, not really_. “Yes, John. I was born into money. When I was on the streets the family put it all into a Trust, I never use it on myself much except for clothes and supplies for my experiments. I prefer to live on my own earnings, but that doesn’t make the other money disappear, I just have it. I just feel that you deserve the best of whatever it is you need, that’s all.” John looked around the flat. Most of the furnishings had come with the place. The things Sherlock actually owned were old, very worn in some instances, clearly used for a long time, though oft-times living in storage. His clothes were bespoke, his books were immaculately kept, but overall Sherlock personally indulged himself in his wealth very rarely, and when he’d been a full-blown junkie he’d lost access to it all but had gained it all back again months ago, in time to secure 221 B Baker Street, and in time to have someplace to settle down with John, though he hadn’t planned that. “I hope you don’t mind.”

John looked torn for a moment then looked down at his spare trainers that were by the door. They were worn at the toes, the tread so faint as to be nearly smooth, and then he looked at his new pair of leather shoes, the ones made of cleverness and secrets, and he sighed, “Well I don’t know that I don’t _entirely_ mind because I do like to earn my own way, but I can’t say I actually hate how you’re going about this. I don’t feel emasculated, maybe it’s because you’re a man, I can’t say if you were a woman I’m not sure I’d be so happy about this.”

“You’ve caught some very hard breaks in your life, John. Your situation is faultless, a mere dip in the road. You would have sorted it all out in time but now you don’t have to. I have all of this and no one to share it with. You are the first person I’ve ever known that I _want_ to take care of who isn’t Mrs Hudson, and honestly, she looks after me more than I look after her. I would never wish to injure your pride so might I remind you that we _are_ engaged and that soon enough what’s mine will be yours _anyway_ , so this is all just…things you need.”

“All I need is _you_. I can live without all the stuff.” John pulled Sherlock close and looked up at him, “I’ve lived without _things_ for a very long time and I’ve done alright. I’ve lived without _you_ for a very long time, and that’s been terrible in retrospect. Now I can’t help but wonder how happy I might have been if we’d met earlier, but then, we wouldn’t be the same fellows we are today, would we? Okay, Sherlock, this is our new life, our new beginning, and I guess I get new togs out of it, so alright. Thank you, sweetheart, this is probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me, and really you could say that about everything you did for me today.”

“Nothing I did required any effort on my part.” Sherlock was puzzled. Other people had actually done the things. He’s mostly sat there and signed credit slips.

“Whatever _sugar-daddy_ , you’re trying to take care of me, and keep me happy. That’s pretty special and I appreciate it. No one has ever done so much for me without expecting a great deal in return.” John kissed Sherlock lightly even as Sherlock rolled his eyes at the name.

“Well to be fair, I _do_ expect a great deal in return. I expect that you will devote yourself entirely to me.” Sherlock loved how John giggled, “I’m being serious.”

“I know you are my angel, and I can assure you that you will never, ever, ever, have to worry about me losing focus on you.” John seemed at ease with his declaration, and Sherlock was pleased. He knew what his faults were and the endless desire for praise and positive attention were two of the largest issues he dealt with. He knew he was vain and prideful, and that sometimes his attentions seemed narcissistic but no one understood him, no one could deal with his excesses, and no one spent enough time in his company to break through his walls to give him comfort. John had just danced right on in. “I’m pretty possessive Sherlock. You’ve offered to marry me and I love that, so I said yes. You’re mine now, I don’t share, not with anyone.” John was rubbing Sherlock’s lower back in a soothing continuous circle. After a brief kiss, the soldier continued “I love how innocent you are. I love how much you know. You’re curious about things, and that’s marvellous but I’m never going to let you learn from anyone but me, well, about sex that is, it isn’t likely I can help you anywhere else really. You don’t seem to care about things that a lot of people would be very concerned about, and that’s a relief. We get on, and for me, that’s not usual. I don’t mind hanging with my mates for a bit, but I always get going as soon as I can, I’m not like that with you. The _sex_! The sex is already out of this world and we’re just getting started.”

“I wish we _were_ getting started!” replied Sherlock testily. John’s words were very romantic but they had come home for a _very_ specific reason, even if Sherlock himself had caused the ongoing delay.

“Git.” John kissed Sherlock lightly, “We need to make up the bed and stow everything where it belongs before we do anything. I can’t relax with this great mess just sitting here.” _Ah yes. John was an orderly man, but also very independent_ , “Just relax love, this won’t take any time at all.”

Indeed John was efficient but it all still took longer than he was prepared to be on hold for, and Sherlock was becoming impatient. The soldier made the bed up crisply, using the new sheets, pillows, and duvet. He then went on to unpack everything else but made Sherlock help by making him neatly parcel up all the packing material that accumulated for proper disposal, and Sherlock complained the entire time. Reloading the new refrigerator reminded the soldier that he was hungry, and by then Sherlock was antsy, “This is taking forever!” he complained as John began pulling things back out of the fridge, “I’m going out.” He was snapping with frustration. _John could eat and do whatever, he was going for a walk_.

“No, you’re not.” said John calmly, “I need a little bit to eat. It’s been hours. I get cranky if I don’t eat on a regular schedule and you really don’t want that. If you leave I’m going to get upset and you don’t want that either.”

 _Well no, he probably didn’t_. Sherlock rapidly considered the potential ramifications of leaving vs staying, and decided keeping John happy was the outcome he was looking for but his lover had to understand certain things about him. “I don’t like being made _to do things_ and I most certainly don’t like to be made _to wait_.”

“I know my love, I know.” John sighed, “Look, I’m going to have a hot sandwich. It will only take five minutes, you can sit and have tea with me and by the time we’re done I’ll have eaten. Our bed is ready, we have fresh fancy towels, and as we proved earlier, a shower that fits two people. Surely you can wait five more minutes for that, or you can go for your walk, we’ll argue when you get back, and I’ll make up a cot in the upstairs bedroom for myself tonight.”

Those outcomes weren’t difficult to choose from even if it did amount to emotional blackmail. He snarled the words out angrily, “I’ll stay.” Sherlock resented being manipulated and couldn’t stop the glower on his face, “The upstairs cot might be an idea.” he added coldly. _He’d lived without sex forever. If he needed to he could live without it again._ The fact that he was angry because he _wasn’t_ getting any sex yet wasn’t lost on him but he refused to recognise it.

John sighed again. “How’s this then? I’ll give you a back-rub to make up for all the waiting you had to do, and that will lead into our next lesson.”

 _Interesting. Giving and taking as part of their intertwined social construct_. Sherlock was still feeling fractious but John’s calm offer was appealing, and really, all he wanted to do was spend time with John anyway. He was losing nothing. “Very well.” Sherlock still sounded clipped and terse but he couldn’t help that.

John lit up anyway, “You really are so sweet. I know it’s not easy being patient.” John kissed Sherlock lightly and seated him at the table before kissing him lightly again, “Thank you, my love, I’ll get your tea.” John was very affectionate and kept giving Sherlock little kisses as he quickly built a generous sandwich and somehow managed to ferry it into a heavy pan where it sizzled and toasted under a lid. When it was done John cut it into quarters and offered Sherlock a corner, “You might like it.” he said hopefully and Sherlock could not say no.

 _Another taste explosion!_ Sherlock really wasn’t hungry but he could still appreciate the complexity of flavours John had teased together. The sandwich was both crisp and melty, and John simply beamed when Sherlock took a second small bite, then happily ate up the remainder before cleaning up and finishing his tea at the table with a now much calmer consulting detective.

“My beautiful man.” John sighed again, but with a joyfulness that had been absent previously. Sherlock couldn’t help but look pleased and John noticed, “There we are, my sweet angel. Let’s wash up and then we can lock ourselves away for the night. You’ve been so good, you deserve something special.”

The shower was perfunctory but John more than made up for the lack of physical affection thereby lavishing it on Sherlock once they were clean and dry. One of the new over-large bath towels was laid over the new duvet, and Sherlock was stretched out face-down on it, bare as the day he was born. John found some massage oil he had tucked away, and when he was ready he sat, also nude, on the back of Sherlock's thighs, “Relax my love. Just relax.” John’s voice was soft and soothing, as was his touch. Gently he smoothed oil over Sherlock’s torso and began to slide his forearms up and down, broad sweeps that touched every inch of Sherlock’s back, and even his hips. John worked slowly and carefully, identifying knots and tense spots with ease, his breathing steady and calming. After a long while John began to use his hands, the flattened fingers splayed just a bit as he worked his way through major muscle groups in turn, loosening stresses Sherlock had long grown accustomed to merely enduring, and then the doctor switched to his knuckles, somehow making them almost dance over Sherlock’s skin while still kneading deeply into the tissue. The scent of the oil was subtle but rich, and Sherlock had never felt so pampered in his entire life.

John moved down to his legs. Sherlock hadn’t considered that. It should have felt vulnerable and strange but it didn’t. Instead, it felt weirdly amazing to have someone work so hard to make him feel good, and John was coolly professional as he laboured. He worked his way back up, rechecking particular locations before working on the backs of Sherlock’s arms. Every so often John would dribble a few more drops of oil on and now Sherlock felt he must be glistening everywhere, “Turn over.” John’s request was whispered but Sherlock found himself moving immediately, much gratified when John saw how his attentions had affected him. “Just look at you.” Now John sounded breathless and hungry once more.

Sherlock glanced down at himself. He was fully erect, which he’d been dimly aware of, but John clearly hadn’t anticipated this reaction but the doctor was not displeased, “It’s just how you make me feel.” _Surely John realised this by now?_

John leaned down and kissed his way up Sherlock’s belly and chest before kissing his mouth, making it last until Sherlock was sighing softly and trying to pull John closer, “I’m not done yet my fine beauty. Patience.”

 _Patience? John was going to kill him by making him wait!_ Sherlock was aware that the throbbing in his groin had only been going on for a minute or so but still, surely gratification was the goal? “What more?” _His back was done, his legs were done, even his arms were done! What was left for John to massage?_ He found out.

John used the flat of his hands again, working the oil into Sherlock’s chest and abdomen, his hips, his thighs, even making his way down to Sherlock’s feet. More oil was applied and John slowly slid his palms upward, calmly making his way inward as he followed the muscles right to the top of Sherlock’s legs and no further. _He wasn’t touching Sherlock where Sherlock wanted to be touched. John was evil._

Sherlock nearly groaned as John massaged his inner thighs with sure competent motions, pushing them wider and wider until the small man was kneeling close. John then spread his fingers wide, and beginning at Sherlock’s knees he slid upward until his hands were cupping Sherlock’s testicles, sweeping over them, under them, but never touching his aching cock. Sherlock let go a shuddering breath. The tease was terrible and wonderful at the same time.

John used one hand to gather up what he’d been playing with, and the other to begin firmly massaging Sherlock’s perineum. He couldn’t help it. He moaned. _That felt incredible_. John’s fingers were so firm, the location was so much more sensitive than he would ever have imagined. John used the heel of his hand to press and massage in small circles before changing his moves to now rubbing up and down the now well-aroused region to dip in between Sherlock’s cheeks and back up again.

 _John was destroying him!_ The sensations kept growing in intensity. Each touch made him aware of the next touch so much more. Each time those clever fingers dipped, John pressed inward with increasing assurance. He found the small tight entrance to Sherlock’s body and included it on his meanderings. Sherlock was completely lost to sensation now, moaning softly as John teased him endlessly. Oil was dribbled here and there, and even his penis received small tempting drips of the stuff as John played.

John moved. Re-arranging Sherlock’s legs he shifted forward, and Sherlock’s hand automatically came up to grasp his hips when John settled his bum squarely down onto Sherlock’s cock. Now Sherlock realised the soldier had given him extra lubrication for a reason. John began to gyrate slowly, and Sherlock recognised some of it from John’s lap-dance, and he couldn’t help but groan again. John held him tightly, sliding back and forth, one hand cupping his own erection to keep it from bobbing everywhere. Sherlock swiped his hand over his own shining chest and reached for it. John let him.

John’s cock was thick and fit so perfectly in his hands. Matching the soldier’s motions as best he could Sherlock pumped languidly up and down, both men enjoying the increased friction together. John’s body flexed and he did things that Sherlock didn’t quite follow but that nonetheless felt stupendous, and the soldier’s whole goal now seemed to be making Sherlock moan with greater volume. He was succeeding.

John was naughty and rude, “The first time, do you want me to fuck you or do you want to fuck me?” he asked casually, and leered when Sherlock’s cheeks grew hot, “I just want to know if I get to feel this inside me, or if I get to put this,” John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s, pumping their fists over his shaft firmly, he reached behind himself and deliberately sought out Sherlock’s anus, “Right here.”

 _It felt so good. It felt so odd. It felt…_ Sherlock couldn’t describe his reaction to John’s probing fingers. _Did he want to be inside John first? What would that be like? John’s fingers felt very pleasant, but the human body wasn’t designed to receive in this way very comfortably was it? It seemed logical that preparation in advance would be necessary._ He had no idea what to do. _He could accidentally harm John. It would be better the other way round_. “I want you to fuck me like you like to be fucked.”

It seemed _rude_ worked on John because the soldier’s hips bucked involuntarily for the first time, and John actually moaned himself, “Oh angel, my sweet perfect angel. Yes. I want to fuck you. I want to take that glorious arse of yours and make it mine.” _Oh, John_. “I’m going to fuck you so slowly you’ll think you’re losing your mind, and then I’m going to fuck you so hard you really will _.” John. Perfect, amazing, naughty, wonderful John_. “I really only meant to give you a massage, not take your virginity, but…”

John kissed him, his wonderful bottom still sliding gently up and down Sherlock’s hardness. _Sherlock was filled with such desire, he didn’t care what John did. He wanted all of it, now_. “Please John.” He begged. _He was begging. Sherlock was begging John to fuck him_ , “I want you.” _He did._ Sherlock had never wanted any drug the way he now wanted John Watson, “John.”

“I will love, I will, but not tonight. All in good time, my sweet.” John’s words were caressing and tender but his body was not. His body was hot and demanding, urgent and very present, “I want you to come for me, Sherlock. I want you to think about what it’s going to be like to be fucked by me and I want you to come.”

John was relentless. He used his entire body, twisting and rutting, sliding and rubbing. Somehow he managed to manoeuvre Sherlock so his thighs were again tight together, then John inserted his cock between them, allowing himself to fuck Sherlock without penetrating him at all, their bodies now almost constantly touching in their most sensitive places. The glide was almost too much of a barrier, and at the same time, not enough. The rasp of John’s body-stubble, the softness of his skin, the hardness of his cock, the tenderness of his attentions, all of it was almost too much for Sherlock to deal with. Just as it was becoming overwhelming John reached down between them and took Sherlock’s cock into his hand. With sure swift jerks and twists, John brought him over the edge. _What would it be like to be joined together in this moment? Would the pleasure be the same or different?_ Sherlock cried out again and was instantly suffused with the same delicious melange of sensations that made him shudder and tremble, and he realised he was sweat-soaked from head to toe, shaking and weak feeling.

Now John pushed Sherlock’s legs apart to kneel between them before he pulled Sherlock’s legs up high and tight, fitting himself between Sherlock’s narrow thighs to begin thrusting hard and fast. It took a minute or two but soon enough John was grunting out his release, his strong hips snapping forward sharply as he emptied himself over Sherlock’s already messy stomach. Sherlock enjoyed every second, he loved how natural it all was, how easy it was to do these things with John, how amazing it all felt. When John slumped wearily forward, pushing his way back between the legs he’d held so tightly, Sherlock cradled him in his arms, stroking his damp back, caressing his buttocks and working his way up John’s spine. He realised his legs had hooked around John’s and that his arms were holding the soldier as closely as possible while John kissed him with such tenderness that Sherlock’s heart almost hurt from the sweetness of it. “That was so very perfect, my love.” John’s voice was soft and as tender as his kiss, and Sherlock’s heart ached again.

“You’re marvellous.” Sherlock couldn’t help the wonder in his voice and was surprised to see John’s cheeks pink even more than the sex-blush he had could account for, “You’re _amazing_ John. I did not know I could feel these things, that _things_ could feel _anything_ like this.” Sherlock paused to kiss John back, “You’ve given me so much to enjoy already, and I know we’re just beginning.”

John chuckled softly before snuggling down. He was clearly relishing their intimacy, and Sherlock had no reason not to let it continue for as long as John wanted. The soldier’s body weight was comfortably heavy on his transport, and Sherlock loved how John smelled, especially now that he was salty with perspiration and ejaculate. He knew they were sticky and needed to wash but he rather liked the physical evidence of their ardour, “That was a close call, I almost decided to go all the way.” John chuckled to himself and kissed Sherlock’s chest, “I’m glad we waited though.”

Sherlock was completely content. He would have let John have that if he’d asked but he too was glad they hadn’t rushed forward. Wrapping his arms tightly around John Sherlock kissed the soldier firmly. “Let’s wash up.”

Tidying the bed was at least easy and Sherlock teased John about the massive towel they had used, “We’d need to change the bed otherwise.” Apart from being rumpled, their bed was still clean and the towel was immediately put in the laundry hamper.

John laughed softly as he tugged the bedding straight. _He really did prefer orderliness. Good_. Sherlock hated housework and John didn’t even seem to realise he was doing it, “True enough love, okay then.” John took Sherlock right back to the shower which lasted much longer and involved shaving each other’s faces, and then kissing until the water began to grow cool. It wasn’t late but now Sherlock felt weary. John gave him a quick look before towelling Sherlock’s hair dry, “Let’s go to bed, my love.”

“It’s too early.” It wasn’t late in the evening at all, despite everything.

“We can cuddle.” _Oh. Well then_. Sherlock just shrugged and went back to the bedroom to climb under the duvet while John prowled around the flat to shut off all the lights and to lock the door. When he was satisfied John returned to their room and joined his lover, “You look so sweet my angel, come here.”

Sherlock now eagerly went into John’s waiting arms, already assuming the position John preferred, his head on the soldier’s chest, his hand on John’s belly, and his long legs tucked under and over John’s so that they were touching in as many ways as possible. John began his slow gentle caresses and with a satisfied sigh Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed his transport to enjoy the moment as fully as possible. John’s touch was gentle and exploratory. He followed muscle and bone, toyed with curves and dips, stroked over small moles and hairs, petting Sherlock tenderly until he was so relaxed he found himself incapable of opening his eyes, “I like this.” His voice was soft but rumbling, almost pure vibration that passed from his body directly into John’s.

“I do too.” John’s voice was as tender as his touch. His fingers came up to play with Sherlock’s curls, and with his ear, before stroking down his neck and back down his spine, “This is probably the most perfect thing I can imagine.”

 _Oh, John_. “Your imagination is clearly better than mine, I could never have thought of myself like this.” That was pure truth. Sherlock had never even remotely considered being anything resembling intimate with anyone.

“I’ve been dreaming about something like this since I was a lad, I’ve never come close to finding it.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head several times, “You really are a dream come true, my love, my wild wicked brilliant mad scientist.” There was real affection in John’s voice and it made Sherlock’s cheeks heat.

“You’re the perfect one, John. Most people would do a lot to stay away from me.” More truth. Most people found Sherlock to be almost painful company, his lack of social graces including a complete inability to stay his mouth.

“They can all go fuck themselves.” John’s voice was hard now, “I don’t give a flying fuck what other people think of you if they keep it to themselves. You’re so amazing, of course, people are going to feel insecure around you, it makes them act out. I love that about you, I just…if I could get hard again this soon I’d fuck you right now, that’s how much your brilliance turns me on.” John still managed to pull Sherlock up to kiss him ardently. When he finally allowed it to end his eyes were soft and filled with the same tenderness that was in his voice and in his touch, “You’re mine and I’m yours now. I’ll always want to support you however I can. I’ll protect you from whatever you need protecting from. I want to look after you, and keep you happy in whatever way that takes. I can drive people crazy too, not many people really enjoy the level of attention I like to give, maybe you’ll be divorcing me before a year has gone by.”

That was absolutely ridiculous, “You may not have had time to appreciate something about me yet John, in that I demand a great deal of attention. I’m getting you a better mobile and a new device of some kind, that coal-powered laptop of yours is entirely inadequate. What if you need to help me with the Work? I need to be able to get in touch with you reliably _and at all times_ , and you need to be able to do whatever research I require as quickly as possible. We can’t wait twenty minutes for your old OS to boot up. We’ll find something appropriate in the morning.”

The warmth in John’s eyes had only grown warmer, and Sherlock found himself being kissed firmly once again, “You are…all these things Sherlock! I’ve never lived life like this. I’ve never had new anything almost ever, and now I have the best money can buy. Thank you, love, I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Why in the world would you need to repay me?” Sherlock was entirely puzzled. _These were gifts, weren’t they? Did one expect recompense for gifts? That seemed like a rather low ideal_. “I want you to have these things, I have the capacity to procure them, and therefore they are yours. My only hope is that you willingly remain with me, nothing I give you should compel you to stay, or indeed provide me with anything at all. If you left right now and took it all with you I would not prevent it…”

John covered Sherlock’s mouth with his hand, “Don’t.” John’s voice was hard, as were his eyes, “Don’t say it, Sherlock. Never joke about it. Never make light of it. I will not leave you, I will not. Thank you for the gifts, I will enjoy them. Thank you for explaining your position about them, that’s very good of you. If we are sharing our lives together that’s one thing, but I will not be bought by _things_ , not by anyone. I’m staying because I want to stay, not because your new fridge is big enough to contain an entire human body, and I know that’s why you bought it.”

John was brilliant and only raised the bar on perfection with every word, “I’d marry you right now if I could.” Sherlock knew he sounded breathless.

John’s eyes went soft instantly, “My angel.”

Sherlock took John’s left hand and raised it to his lips to press a kiss to John’s new ring, “There is much about each other we have left to learn John Watson. You’re a brave man, that bravery will be put to the test.”

“Are you trying to turn me on again, because I’m not a young man anymore,” John was smiling and he looked happy, “Do you think there’s anything that can frighten me away?”

Sherlock looked at his lover and considered all the dark and dreadful things he had done, and all the devastating and horrifying things John had likely done, “I hope not John. You are my perfect match, you can never cling too tightly to suit me.”

John now looked blissfully happy and he tugged Sherlock back onto his chest and resumed caressing him, “I hope you mean that pet, I have a difficult time backing off.”

“Excellent John.” Sherlock closed his eyes and let John sooth him to sleep. He counted his soldier’s heartbeats, measuring the cadence and pace of it as he drifted. “My beautiful soldier.” John was warm and gentle, his hand rubbed and even poked curiously here and there, and all of it was so lovely. Feeling safe and very coddled Sherlock’s drifting turned into outright slumber. He didn’t feel his arms and legs wrap around John’s small form, nor did he hear the tiny sounds of distress his sleeping partner was beginning to make. Breathing in the scent of John Sherlock simply slept, unaware that the body caught in his embrace was growing tense, or that the fingers that had carded so softly through his hair were now curling into fists.

He slept.


	7. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is a man of many surprises, and Sherlock has enjoyed learning much about his intrepid soldier.

A harsh voice growled a question into his ear, the voice rough and menacing. Sherlock had been hard asleep, and the drowsy confusion he felt was only magnified when he opened his eyes to encounter complete blackness. It was full night, the thick curtains were drawn tight, and the lamp wasn't on. The question was repeated but Sherlock didn’t understand the language being spoken. _Who would be in their room in the middle of the night?_ Terror filled him because he wasn’t the only one in danger. _Where was John? Who was this? What was going on?_ The words flowed together but the voice that spoke them was demanding and filled with anger. Suddenly Sherlock felt someone grab the back of his neck and he was pushed harder into the mattress, face down, a knee at the small of his back. _John! There was no intruder, it was John! The soldier was caught in a dream or a flashback!_ “It’s me, John, it’s me, Sherlock.” His words were muffled as well as ignored. The voice only grew more menacing, the question repeated and added to. Sherlock was frisked quickly, his arms twisted painfully up and he began to struggle, “John! _Turn on the light_ John! It’s me!”

Sherlock stopped breathing when he felt the ice-cold tip of John’s handgun press to his temple. His arms were loosed, and John got off of him to shift cautiously away from Sherlock, the weapon not moving a hair as the small man felt his way to the night-stand. A click announced his successful discovery of the lamp and then, “ _Sherlock_ , oh fucking hell, _what did I do?_ ” John sounded horrified and instantly took his handgun away, shoving it into the drawer, “Fuck.” John got off the bed, and Sherlock raised his head to look at his lover. John was ashen and his hands were shaking. “Fuck.” he said again and crumpled to his knees, his eyes going blank and his body simply folding over, “Fuck.” he whispered as he curled up into a ball, “ _Breathe_ John. You just need to breathe.” John was attempting to self-sooth. His arms closed around his head, his trembling fingers cinched tightly together as he closed in on himself, “You’re not there. It’s done. I am _not_ there.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do. John seemed to be oblivious to him at the moment but the urge to go to the man was so compelling that he almost fell out of bed trying to get to him, “John? Darling, it’s me. It’s Sherlock.” He crouched beside John. Hesitantly he reached out, unsure where the safest place to touch John would be before deciding to simply lay his hand on the floor close enough to John’s for the soldier to feel the warmth of it without actually making contact. It worked. John’s hand shot out and he gripped Sherlock’s fingers tightly, “Darling, you are safe. You are home with me. It’s alright John, everything is alright.” Gingerly Sherlock tugged John’s hand and was surprised when John shifted enough to bury his face in Sherlock’s lap, his hand still holding Sherlock’s tightly, but his other arm now wrapped around Sherlock’s hips. Carefully he petted John’s hair, attempting to sooth the soldier but he had no real experience at offering comfort. He rubbed John’s neck, and slowly smoothed his hand up and down the soldier’s back, watching all of John’s physical cues intently. When the grip on his fingers relaxed infinitesimally Sherlock asked in a soft gentle voice, “Would you like to get back onto the bed?”

John nodded but remained silent. Carefully Sherlock helped him up, noting that John was limping badly now and that his left shoulder was noticeably lower than his right. _The episode he’d just endured had reminded John’s transport of its various grievances and it was acting out._ _How disobedient of it!_ “Lay down, my darling.” Still trembling John lay face down and became limp, almost lifeless looking as he stared blindly forward. Sherlock took up the oil the John had used earlier and used a few drops on John’s sore shoulder. He used his mind palace to extrapolate the different techniques John had used on him to begin carefully working the knot out of John’s neck and back, easing the tension cautiously. He made a note to look into massage therapy _intensively_. If his lover required tending, then _he_ would be the one to do it. Research was now required, and Sherlock set his vast mind to work thinking of all the things he could do to assist John in repairing the damage to his already damaged psyche. Without thought he leant forward and kissed John’s temple, “We’re alright John. We’ll be okay, my dearest.”

“Sherlock.” John’s croaked out Sherlock’s name and twisted around to face him, “I’m so sorry.” John’s face was so unhappy. His eyes were reddened but he still looked so blank. “I would never hurt you, not on purpose.” The need to add a qualifier clearly pained the soldier greatly.

 _It might not happen on purpose at first but it would likely happen eventually. John could not help what he did when he was caught in a night-terror. He was a trained soldier_. Sherlock’s mind whirled and danced, “It wouldn’t matter if you did John. I have a high pain threshold and I’m very stubborn. While I doubt that you would _actively_ pursue physically hurting me I am also _very_ aggravating and I’m sure there will be many occasions in our future when kicking me in the arse might be too great of a temptation for you to resist.” John’s face froze for a moment and then he giggled. Sherlock sighed with relief, “I too have many issues you will have to accommodate, my dear, and tonight only demonstrates what I’ve already suspected.” He’d diagnosed John’s PTSD practically the first instant he’d seen the soldier. He should have expected it to manifest sooner or later. “You weren’t trying to hurt me regardless, you didn’t know where you were, and you were just trying to keep yourself safe. I won’t be able to say the same honourable thing.”

“Your addiction.” Sherlock nodded. He hadn’t used in a long time but that didn’t mean the cravings had gone, it just meant he’d been strong enough to ignore them but the chances of remaining strong forever were as good as John being able to overcome his disorder tonight. At some point, John would have to deal with those cravings, and Sherlock could only hope that the soldier really did have the fortitude to handle how stroppy, manipulative, deceptive, and cunning he could be when in the middle of a full-blown episode of his own. Mycroft had many times been driven to lock Sherlock away. Padded cells were a real thing, and Sherlock had been inside more than one as an unwilling guest. John pulled Sherlock down for a long hug before heaving a large shuddering sigh, “We’re so fucking broken.”

“Yes, John.” _What was there to say to that? Both of them were so obviously cracked the fissures could be seen for miles around_. “We fit each other perfectly.” _Like puzzle pieces that had been stored in different boxes. Now they were together, all their pieces could fit together and perhaps heal, and maybe even grow a bit_.

John clearly needed to sooth himself more, and he did so by soothing Sherlock who didn’t really need it but accepted the soldier’s tender ministrations gracefully. He settled himself into John’s favourite position and let his lover pet his curls and stroke his back. Sherlock helped by running his hand slowly up and down John’s torso, letting their bodies give and take what they needed until John’s breathing was easy and slow, and the distress in his expression had lessened somewhat. “I’m sorry Sherlock.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for John.” Sherlock lifted himself up a bit to look down at his lover, “I care for you greatly, I know you would not harm me, not really. I understand more about what you need now and that is not a bad thing.” Sherlock leant forward and kissed John, trying to infuse it with everything he felt for his soldier, all his admiration and adoration, the greatness of his affections, the commitment in his heart to remain with John for as long as he could manage. “We will help each other.” He said firmly after and John nodded sharply in agreement. “Do you think you can sleep again?”

John looked uncomfortable for a moment then slowly shook his head, “You can if you need to though, it’s not even close to dawn.”

“I’ve slept more since I met you than I did all last month, we can get up if you want…or…” Sherlock kissed John again, but this time he slid his hand downward, “We could distract ourselves.”

A crooked grin bloomed on John’s face. “Yes, that sounds like a good option.”

John was very tender, almost apologetic. His caresses were gentle and soft, but when he turned Sherlock to his stomach the soldier grew still for a long moment. John bent down and softly kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck, and spoke, his voice ragged with distress once again, “I can see my handprint.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say, “I don’t mind being marked by you.” _He didn’t. He hurt himself all the time and not always by accident_. The fact was that Sherlock healed almost inhumanly fast and rarely scarred, which was good or he would be covered everywhere he could reach with small nicks and cuts as he used himself to gain the samples he often needed for testing. The odd unintentional bruise here and there from John was nothing. He wasn’t afraid _of_ John, he’d been more afraid _for_ John, “You’re very dominant.” _John was_. Sherlock found he didn’t actually mind that though he’d always considered himself of an alpha disposition. “We can try sleeping with a faint nightlight on. Once you saw it was me you stopped. It was dark, you couldn’t know what was real, and what was the dream.” It seemed like a simple logical solution to him. _John had been obviously disoriented, his instinctive reactions could not be counted against him. Indeed, should they ever be in a dire situation then John’s reactions were perfect_. Sherlock grew satisfied as he realised that his lover was dangerous even in his sleep and he smiled, “I’m alright John.” _He was better than alright, this was phenomenal! When Mycroft had surprised John Sherlock had been entirely unthreatened. John had automatically protected him, even if he hadn’t seen it that way at the time. Wonderful_.

“Sherlock.” John bent down and kissed the bruise again, “I hate that I hurt you, even a bit. I hate that I lost control, I don’t like that.” Sherlock understood completely. His entire life had been dedicated to the attainment of self-control over all of himself. He may seem a storm to others but his madness was ordered chaos. John wasn’t like that. John was steady, a steel blade at the core, but the hardest metal could crack and shatter under the right kinds of pressure, and Sherlock could see that John was very close to his limit. _Sherlock realised he was already John’s weakness_. _He had to reassure his soldier_.

“My darling, you have nothing to feel remorse over. The bruise will fade in a day or two, and you and I will still have our lessons to share, and my parents to meet, and our engagement to announce. You could have _easily_ hurt me severely John Watson, your gun was to keep me from spurring you into a physical altercation. Even then you were trying to _prevent_ harm from happening. It’s alright John, there’s nothing to be sad about.” Now Sherlock was the one twisting around to face his soldier, pulling him down into his arms and kissing the tip of his nose, then his cheeks, his eyebrows, the little soft spot at the top of his nose, and then John’s mouth, “Good and bad are very subjective things, in my view. You might not like certain parts of yourself but I admire them greatly. You are a marvellous creature, John Watson. You have resolved to see these things about yourself as things to overcome, but I see them as natural parts of yourself, something unchangeable because they are at the root of your character.”

A great many emotions flowed across John’s face then. Sherlock saw fear, regret, chagrin, resolve, determination, and then slowly all of it melted into the soft warm John face that Sherlock especially loved to see, “You’re madder than I am.”

“Yes John, quite so.” Sherlock’s family had him rigorously tested and then ensured that their wealth protected their youngest son as best as they could manage, Mycroft was set to watching his younger brother at all times. All families had their eccentrics, their secret relations that no one spoke about. In the Holmes family that was Sherlock. Dinner on Saturday should be interesting if Mummy and Papa invited anyone else. “Your association with me will be counted against you many times.” John would hear all the whispered stories, the tales that the cousins muttered to themselves about Sherlock’s experiments. Even around London Sherlock’s reputation was well known. Sally Donovan wasn’t the only one to call him a freak.

“I’ve killed lots of people. A few more won’t hurt my conscience,” replied John stoutly. “Okay, I get it. I’ll try not to beat myself up about this, but honestly my love, this wasn’t so bad. There will be other nights when it’s much, much worse.”

“I don’t think you _need_ to kill anyone at dinner but they don’t have to know that.” Sherlock felt that was reasonable, after all, John _was_ a killer, he should be respected. If someone was foolish enough to mock him then they should be aware that they were endangering themselves. “You’re the one with all the professional training in killing, I’ll have to leave it to your discretion. If I could kill everyone who annoyed me there would be a very large drop in the local population. Your self-control is admirable.”

Now John was giggling again and trying not to. “That’s terrible my love. You can’t just go around killing people for annoying you.”

“I know! I specialise in _crime_ John, I realise how few murders happen for small reasons. There is always something larger at play in the background if anyone took the time to look. I do.” Sherlock glared up at his lover, “Seriously John, seeing and observing aren’t the same thing.”

“You’re amazing.” John kissed him, “So amazing.” Another kiss, “That mind!” John kissed Sherlock’s forehead all over, “You’re fucking insane, I love that so much.”

Sherlock’s heart thumped in his chest, “Do you?”

John’s eyes were soft again, “Yes I do.”

“I’m glad you are too.” _John was so very perfect_.

“I have it mostly under control.” John was earnest, “This almost never happens. I’m so sorry sweetheart.”

“It _does_ happen though, and it’s alright John. I don’t want you to worry about me unnecessarily. I might get hurt from time to time, but that’s alright too. I’m positive.” For _John_ Sherlock was entirely willing to deal with whatever collateral damage might occur. John was too right for him, and if the cost to keep him was the odd disrupted night’s sleep, and whatever injury that might occur, then that’s the price he would gladly pay. For no better reason than curiosity had Sherlock poisoned _himself_ a multitude of times, had broken several bones, extracted biological samples, and once, if Mycroft had not interfered, he tried to remove one of his own teeth. Sherlock thought it was likely the amount of pain he experienced overall would actually greatly _decrease_ since he wouldn’t be getting into fights with suspects alone anymore, and John probably wasn’t going to let him do things like removing one of his own fingernails despite the fact that they grew back. Sherlock knew _that_ for certain too. He’d have to increase his presence at the morgue, Dr Hooper already had a rather useful crush on him, he could get more samples that way.

Sherlock suddenly had second thoughts about that. _John said he was possessive. The near-flirting he’d done to gain access to all the dead bodies would have to cease_. He’d have to deal with Molly some other way. “What’s that look?” John’s head crooked to the side as he looked curiously at Sherlock.

“My thoughts wander a great deal, I think about several things simultaneously.” Sherlock wasn’t going to hide anything from John, “I’m a strange man John, my nickname, the one you so generously have defended me against already, is well earned. The tissue samples that were here when you first arrived, I get them from one Doctor Molly Hooper who works at Bart’s.”

“I applied there. They said they didn’t have a place for me.” John’s frown was creeping back, “ _Molly_ Hooper? Is she pretty?” Already Sherlock could see John was not feeling generous toward the association. It was best to come clean about everything.

“I suppose John, she seems regularly formed, and she’s relatively neat about her person.” Maybe Molly Hooper was a great beauty, Sherlock had no idea. For him, people were merely greater or lesser degrees of a standard set of visible recombinant factors, and even their names hardly set them apart from one another. Only John stood out clearly, only he shone so brightly that even those faint impressions disappeared, “She’s very useful. A fair amount of unidentified bodies come in, or people who have left themselves to science, as it were. She allows me to use samples when I need them.”

John was definitely frowning now, “So you jolly her along to get what you want.” Shamefacedly Sherlock nodded, “Well that’s over and done with. What now?”

“I don’t know John, it’s up to you.” Sherlock had no idea how to keep access without offending John, “She’s pleasant enough, she finds my appearance pleasing, and I suppose the idea of attracting someone inaccessible has its appeal.”

“You are most certainly _inaccessible_ , especially now.” John’s eyes were hard again, “I _don’t_ share Sherlock, so whatever it was that you used to do with anyone, you don’t do anymore.”

Sherlock hugged John tight to him and kissed his temple, “You will never have to share me with anyone but I do need to work something out with her.”

John sighed and nodded, “Not exactly the conversation I expected to be having at three in the morning.” Sherlock kissed him again and John kissed him back, “I don’t mean to make things difficult for you sweetheart.”

“I understand John. My life is different now that you are in it. Things I might have done previously are no longer acceptable, and I can abide by those changes. I will adapt.” _He was an intelligent being. He could figure out how to get human body parts without resorting to flirtations. Nothing he needed for his experiments could possibly be worth John’s company and good opinion_.

“Well I’ll help, of course I will. I can meet Doctor Hooper, and we’ll see what can be done, how’s that sweetheart?” Sherlock smiled and nodded. A very simple solution, and then everything would be on Molly, and not him. “I’m sure she’s a very nice person.” The doctor added diplomatically.

“As far as I’m aware Doctor Hooper has no suspicious habits unless it’s her slightly alarming devotion to her cat. In the interest of full disclosure, I’ve never done more than slightly hint, and behave in a moderately encouraging manner, however it _was_ entirely manipulative on my part which in retrospect I see as _not good_ behaviour. I don’t like it when people do that to me, I should not do that to other people.”

John beamed up at him, “See? We can figure things out. Excellent point Sherlock. I like it when people are nice to me, so I’m generally nice to people. Not all of them of course, lots of them need a right good kicking.” _John was so marvellous_. Sherlock couldn’t help himself, he had to kiss his perfect soldier so he did. He made it heated and demanding, and John responded eagerly. “Yeah, this is what I need.” whispered the soldier, “ _Exactly_ what I need.”

That he was _already_ satisfying something for John was very pleasing. Sherlock found he enjoyed the feeling and wanted more of it so he grew slightly more adventurous with his caresses. Deliberately he allowed his hand to drift down to John’s behind, and with a tiny bit of a blush he cupped one cheek with his hand and pulled John tighter to him, “Would you like to give another lesson John?”

Sherlock found himself on his back, his legs wide, and John kneeling close between them. The soldier had easily moved both of them in one smooth roll, the aches and pains that had troubled him so recently now completely forgotten. Sherlock made a note of that for future reference. He also made note of John’s rather surprising physical strength. Sherlock was thin but he wasn’t a small man, and though he was mostly arms and legs, he did weigh more than the soldier did. Despite being quite heavily muscled John was a small man, and yet, there they were, “I’m always interested in another lesson, my love.”

“What am I learning this morning?” John was nuzzling Sherlock’s neck now and that made it difficult to speak, not that John was impeding him physically, but rather, the man was making him feel those same strange delicious shocks as he mouthed at the sensitive flesh.

“ _Patience_.” John was a terrible tease, “I need tea, and probably other things now. It’s better if I get some food into me after an episode.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate no matter how much he wanted to remain in bed to fool around. John needed tending, and Sherlock was determined to learn all the ways that could be done. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“I’ll do that sweetheart, tell you what though, I know it’s early in the season but there’s wood in. Start a fire, we’ll have an early morning cuddle in front of the flames.” _Well, that sounded rather pleasant_. Sherlock nodded so they got up, pulled on their robes, John choosing his new green robe, and both men went about their tasks. One of the perks of living at 221 B was having their own fireplace, a rarity and well worth the price Sherlock paid in advance for the space.

John began to cook and Sherlock smiled and shook his head. His soldier really was predictable. Breakfast happened after he woke in the morning, clearly, that was part of his normal routine. By the time the fire had been well-caught, breakfast was ready. Sherlock carried their mugs of tea to the front room while John brought the plates. They sat side by side and ate together, John hooking his leg over Sherlock’s as they chatted in between bites. John was full of questions once again, and happily, Sherlock answered them all.

Meal consumed John did the dishes while Sherlock used the loo, then Sherlock waited for the doctor to do the same before they were both settled down in front of the well-established flames. John got Sherlock to shift the table out of the way, lay down an old duvet, and the cushion. They lay there silently together and watched the flames, Sherlock behind John as they spooned. It was warm and relaxing, and Sherlock enjoyed both the heat of the fire and the soft warmth of John’s body. They held hands and kept quiet, letting the minutes trickle by in comfort. When the sky began to brighten a short while later John twisted around in Sherlock’s arms and kissed him. It seemed their lesson was about to commence.

John was teasing and naughty, his clever hands stroking and exploring. Sherlock had half expected to be laid out on the duvet but instead, John got him to sit up, his legs spread and extended, bent at the knee. John then managed to sit on the floor facing Sherlock, his legs over Sherlock’s thighs. In this position, they were able to kiss and touch each other nearly everywhere at will. Sherlock enjoyed it very much, continuously monitoring the subtle changes in John’s condition as the session grew hotter and hotter.

When John took him in hand Sherlock began to breathe heavier. The doctor was slow about it, carefully stroking up and down, showing Sherlock how to begin until he was ready to take John in his own hand to copy his lover’s motions. “Just let it build love. I could get you off in just a few minutes if we were in a rush, but the longer we wait, the better it is.” That made sense to Sherlock. _If you gave your transport enough time it would be able to prepare itself. He’d been very aroused already before John had begun his lap-dance, being made to wait had only made his orgasm sweeter_. Resolved to take it as slow as John wanted he paced himself to match the soldier, mimicking the twists and pulls, even employing his other hand to resume its caresses, since John was so near.

Sherlock loved the look on John’s face, the concentration and enjoyment. The soldier was unabashed with his reactions, sighing and moaning frequently. His responses were as gratifying as the hand on his cock. John was a doctor, after all, he knew what he was holding, and how to make Sherlock sigh and moan nearly as often. John always knew when he’d brought Sherlock too far and eased off again and again. Now Sherlock was dripping wet, his cock rigid and so flushed that it was dark. His moans had taken on a desperate edge and the sensations that had built were now almost too much. John shifted a tiny bit closer now and brought their shafts together and deliberately fucked his across Sherlock’s frenulum, their inner foreskin layer entirely exposed, their combined precum making them glide easily together. _Incredible! Fantastic!_ Sherlock felt his legs grow tense, his bottom clenched, his stomach tightened, his breathing became thready once more. He was gripping the back of John’s head with both hands, their foreheads pressed together. “That’s it, love, I want you to come. Come for me sweetheart, let me hear you come. My beautiful man, my amazing genius, you brilliant beautiful thing. Come for me, love, come all over me.”

John’s words were chanted out and Sherlock couldn’t help but respond to them. “John!” The first pulse was blindingly good. Sherlock couldn’t stop the loud moan it caused, nor could he temper it as it continued along with his orgasm which seemed endless. Stripe after stripe of semen painted John’s hard belly and dripped down to his pubic hair, and even his thigh. Sherlock found he was snapping his hips forward, driving himself into John’s fist harder. John’s hand was pumping up and down rapidly, it was almost too harsh for him now but John released him and continued alone, his hand working quickly before he cried out and came.

There would never be a sight as glorious as that of John mid-orgasm. The way his eyes squeezed shut, the way his mouth dropped open and his head fell back, the arch of his back, or the primal sounds he made, the smell of him, the harshness of his pants, the heat of his semen as Sherlock was painted in turn. _John!_ “That’s it my love, so beautiful. You’re so beautiful, my love.” The words came so easily because it was John. _John. So perfect. So wonderful. So_ …

Both of them slumped to the side, John laying limply on Sherlock again, his knees by Sherlock’s waist. They were trying to kiss and breathe at the same time. “That was incredible, sweetheart. Worth the wait, yeah?”

Sherlock could barely keep his eyes open, “Yes John. Very worth the wait.” _There was some virtue in patience. He could see that now_. Glowing lightly he lay beneath John and felt completely satisfied with his existence on earth. “Still no penetration.”

John shrugged, his head on one shoulder, his hand on the other, “Well we’re seeing your parents tomorrow, correct? You probably want to be able to walk, and I promise you, my love, after our first time _with penetration_ you won’t be able to walk normally for at least two days. So. Today’s lesson?”

“Patience?” ventured Sherlock. He wouldn’t mind limping around his family for that reason, at least, he didn’t think he would mind. Anyway, he could wait. He was sure of it. He was so completely satisfied right then he was entirely positive he could wait until after they came back from dinner, “Very well John.”

“You say that now _junkie_.” John’s words were surprisingly un-hurtful. Sherlock chuckled, “You’re a sex-addict now, don’t deny it.”

 _John was probably right. Most of the addiction had been about the feeling, and John was giving him plenty of good feelings with no horrible after-effects, except_ … “We haven’t had our health status checked.” Ruefully he realised he hadn’t given it a thought. He was clean. Mycroft forced him to submit to blood panels all the time, a condition of the return of his Trust.

“I did. I’m totally clean and plan on staying that way. I was regularly checked while I was in the army, and after I was retired out I was still clean. I’ve not had penetrative sex with anyone since, hand-jobs and the like, all protected. You’re the first person I’ve had sex with without condoms, and you’re a virgin so unless you’ve got some pretty nasty surprise to tell me right about now, I think we’re good.”

Sherlock scowled. From _whom_ had John gotten relief? One of the other dancers? “Where and who?” he demanded angrily.

John lifted his head and smirked, “One of the girls at the club liked to fool around before she went on, got her in the mood she said. She’d get me off after I…well, got off. Always just her hands though, she had full make-up for her show.”

Sherlock made a note to check into this woman and ensure she never came anywhere near John ever again. “And _the mouth_?”

John laughed, “Again at the club. A bloke, he’s the one who taught me how to lap-dance. A nice fellow, but he was never one for settling down. He liked to have a lot of sex but I wasn’t interested in more than what we did and he was fine with that. It was all just…convenient.” Sherlock’s good mood had entirely evaporated. He was filled with an ugly feeling, it made him sick and angry at the same time. John’s hand came up to cup his cheek, “Then one night all of it stopped because I saw the most amazing person in the world right in front of me, someone who knew who I used to be, who recognised me right from the first moment. After that, there couldn’t have been anyone else because _you_ Sherlock Holmes, you made all of that end before we ever spoke a word to each other.”

The ugly feeling disappeared as quickly as it arrived, and Sherlock felt light and warm inside once again, “Me?”

“Yes _you_ , you git. What do you think happened?” John looked amused, but that warmth in his eyes was present. “I saw you that first time and that was it for me.”

“It was?” Sherlock couldn’t manage any other responses.

“Yeah, it was. There you were, a fantasy in the flesh, just a few feet away from me, and what could I do? I danced. I did my best to make an impression so you’d come back, and you did.” _Job well done, John_.

“I came back the last time to prove that I didn’t need to come back at all.” confessed Sherlock shyly, “By the third night I convinced myself that you were no different than anyone else, that nothing could _possibly_ happen because I would not allow it to happen.”

“Well, that plan went all to hell.” John was smiling broadly now.

“Yes, it did. The exact opposite happened but I am far from dismayed by that.” They kissed again, “Let’s wash up John.”

“Yes, up we get sweetheart. It won’t do for Martha to discover us glued to the floor by our own fluids.” That comment made Sherlock chuckle again, “I love how you sound when you’re happy. You’ve got a gorgeous smile too, did you know that?”

Sherlock flushed. He’d never paid attention to how he sounded when he laughed, he didn’t do it often. His smile wasn’t something that occurred very often either, and personally, Sherlock thought his looks left a lot to be desired, but _desire_ was something John apparently felt a lot of when it came to Sherlock, “If you think so John.”

“I do think so because it’s a true thing. Your smile is beautiful, your face is beautiful, your body is beautiful, but especially that big brain of yours, that’s so sexy I want to fuck you again.” John’s kiss was robust, “Come on love, before I get us going again.” They’d finished cleaning themselves up when Sherlock’s mobile began to ring. John frowned as he looked at the screen, “It’s Greg.”

 _Who was Greg? Oh_. Sherlock took the proffered device and answered, “Yes Lestrade?” He listened for a minute, “She was told. What do you want me to do about it? I can’t fix that.” Sherlock listened again, “How does that affect me? It doesn’t, that’s how. Sally Donovan being on a billboard has nothing to do with me, perhaps Anderson paid to have it put up, did you ask him? Why would I send Donovan anything? What do you mean knee-pads? Oh, well that’s rather clever,” Sherlock pulled mobile away from his mouth for a second, “John, Donovan was sent a pair of knee-pads that are in development for a firm, they want her to test them for durability. Also, she’s apparently on a billboard in Soho on an advertisement for personal rash medicinal crème. Lastly, her browsing history was published at the MET. Apparently, Miss Sally has some very unusual turn-ons.” He went back to listening to Lestrade, “Look…Greg…I didn’t do this. I can’t stop it. Maybe if she apologises to John online or something it will all stop, I don’t know. I’m here as a consultant, do you need me to consult? If not then I’m ending the call.” He listened again, “Fine, we’ll come look at the scene but I can’t do anything about Donovan so stop asking. We're just here for the crime.” He ended the call.

“Case?” asked John eagerly.

“Case.” Affirmed Sherlock. No matter what tentative plans they’d had today, the game was on.


	8. Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are very few people Sherlock doesn't entirely dislike and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is one of them.

 

John was humming under his breath the entire cab ride to the crime scene. He used his ancient mobile to read his email and chuckled several times. He held Sherlock’s hand as well, and every once in a while he brought it up to his mouth to kiss it almost absently, and each time it made Sherlock smile tenderly at how unthinking an act it was for John. When they arrived they let go of one another. Donovan and a small group of officers were standing beside an alleyway near a small block of flats, and the second the detective caught sight of the pair she scowled. On cue John sang in a bluesy and rather good voice, “ _All she wants to do is ride around, Sally, ride, Sally ride!”_ Sherlock watched in astonishment as the detective grew pale, staggered back, and whipped her head to stare at her fellow officers who were red-faced and trying not to laugh. John stopped singing when they were close enough to step around the barrier, “How’s it going _Mustang Sally_?”

The other officers began to laugh, all of them struggling not to but failing. Donovan was still pale and began to sputter, “Why you little…”

“Yeah, I know I’m not _big_ enough to interest you. That’s okay. I’m enough for Sherlock.” John’s face was completely expressionless.

Sherlock used every bit of self-control at his command to simply ask, “Where’s Lestrade?” while Donovan stood there, her mouth open in horrified shock, her eyes wide. She tried to speak but a gurgling gasping wheeze all she was capable of articulating.

John kept looking at Donovan expressionlessly, “Stop _horsing_ _around_ Donovan, Sherlock asked you a question!”

“You…stop…I…” Sally stopped attempting to speak. Rigid with shock and mortification she pointed toward an open door.

“You look nice today Donovan, what with your hair loose like that. You should wear it up someday though, like in a _pony-tail_.” With those parting words, John calmly walked away. Sherlock said nothing at all. He didn’t have to. John had everything entirely under control. Serenely he walked beside his fiancé to seek out the DI.

“Ah, Lestrade.” Oblivious to his subordinate’s discomfiture Detective Inspector Lestrade was standing grimly just inside the entrance to a small flat. He simply stepped aside, allowing Sherlock to take in the scene without being fed someone else’s theories. After so many years at least Lestrade understood to a degree how Sherlock worked. He wasn’t there to discover clues to fit a predisposed outcome. He was there to pick out the details that would paint their own picture, one made of solid facts, and not conjecture.

It was a small tidy flat, nothing out of the ordinary. They checked the rooms, all just as tidy until they came to the last, “Fuck.” John’s expressionless face was now filled with concern as he cast a practised eye around the scene, “Well?”

It wasn’t good. There was blood everywhere but what was most disturbing was the baby furniture. All of it was smeared with blood, small bottles smashed, milk everywhere. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and carefully he looked everything over, “Bodies?” The scene didn’t look natural to him. It looked violent indeed, but not quite right, as if someone had gone through a lot of trouble to rage through the space angrily, but for no other purpose than to set a stage.

“None.” The DI was terse. Sherlock knew cases involving children seriously affected the man. He was staunch in almost any other situation, but Lestrade had a soft spot for tiny hominids.

John sniffed the air, “Not human.”

Startled Lestrade stared at the small man, “What?”

John was looking about and his gaze was sharp. He sniffed dramatically, his arm coming up to wave around as if to stir the air, “Human blood doesn’t smell like this. Trust me, _I know_. I’ve been on plenty of battlefields and there’s something about how human blood smells, this isn’t it.”

Sherlock nodded his head. “Possibly cow blood or even pig. There are plenty of butchers where one could acquire such things.”

“Who the fuck would do something like this?” Lestrade sounded horrified, “What about the baby?”

Sherlock considered the scene. Blood was sprayed or smeared on every surface, nothing had been touched after. The small dresser still firmly closed, “I suspect the child is gone with whoever has done this, the mother perhaps?”

“Why?” Lestrade was looking around intently. Sherlock appreciated Lestrade. He wasn’t an exemplary detective, but he could be taught, and unlike his co-workers, he didn’t make a fuss about the things he learned from Sherlock. What he _was_ talented at was interfacing with the administrative powers that would have otherwise stymied Sherlock’s participation of investigations, and the consulting detective was mindful of that favour. Lestrade acknowledged and encouraged Sherlock, and in fact had been the person who finally set Sherlock on his career path.

John stood beside the DI and clapped him on the shoulder briefly as if they were already old friends, “She’s running from someone. She staged this to get away. Whoever she’s hiding from is meant to think they’re dead. Let them believe that. Put out a report that a female and infant were found deceased. That will keep her from running further, and stop whoever she was escaping from looking for them.”

“Escaping?” Lestrade looked at John who had dropped his hand and was now staring intently at a blood-smeared photograph. “Why? What makes you think so?”

John frowned, “Lovers? Bad separation? Abuse possibly? What do you see Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked and spoke, “The room has been deliberately made to look as if a violent crime has occurred. I suspect if we open the drawers and examine the closet that several items will be missing. Once we discover who the partner was, we will have our first suspect. Stalkers are also not out of the question, we need to find out who the woman and child were first. The blood has been deliberately set, it’s meant to look as if there were no survivors, _you_ believed it and there aren’t even bodies.”

Shaking his head Lestrade consulted his notepad for a moment, rattling off the few facts he’d garnered from the landlord, “ _Jenny Silva._ Divorced mother of one _Mattie Silva_ , nine months.”

Sherlock frowned _. The ex-husband was the most likely suspect. A lover would be next. Was the parentage of the child in question? There had to be more_. He looked at John. _If he’d found out John had a child with someone, how would he react?_ Sherlock struggled to inhale now, his torso seemed to have frozen. He couldn’t breathe for a long moment and then he relaxed enough to retake control. An instant’s assessment was all that was required _. Not well._ Suddenly the ugly feeling he’d experienced earlier came roaring back and his fists curled up. _This was what happened when love went wrong. People lost all sense of propriety and did the most horrific things_. “Anything in the system regarding reports of abuse or restraining orders?”

Lestrade consulted his mobile for several minutes before sighing deeply, “Husband listed as _Darnell Silva_. Restraining order for domestic violence.”

Sherlock shook his head. _It was always so predictable_. He still felt strange inside but suddenly John was there, his small strong hands taking Sherlock’s fists in his, “Excuse us Lestrade.”

The DI was more than happy to quit the room, leaving them alone, “Sweetheart?”

“Have you ever been married before?” Sherlock looked down at his fiancé. He had so few facts about John. There were huge gaps in his knowledge of the man he’d already pledged to wed.

“No?” John’s handsome and exquisitely expressive face crinkled into a frown now matched Sherlock’s, “No children either, not unless there’s a random surprise for me out in the world, but it would some kind of miracle baby.” John looked Sherlock over quickly, “You’re jealous?”

Sherlock wasn’t relaxing. That ugly feeling was still there. “Someone cheated on someone here. This woman is fleeing violence and she’s running with her baby. All of this is because someone couldn’t keep it in their pants. It was either him or her.”

“Why would he act out against her if it was him?” John’s question was reasonable. Sherlock didn’t like the answers to that, but the scenario was more than likely. Often the aggressor was guilty of the very imagined sins they punished their partners for. The woman could have been entirely blameless and been accused of infidelity because her husband was having an affair that had become known. With a child involved running must have been the only choice she had left to try and save herself and her baby.

“It happens John, more often than you realise.” Sherlock was getting angrier every second. John had _known_ so many people before he’d met Sherlock. He couldn’t stop thinking about it try as he might to focus on the case at hand.

“Fucking _cheaters_!” John was spitting mad now and Sherlock was taken aback at the fury in the soldier’s voice, “Liars and cheats! _Disgusting!_ I really hope it wasn’t her because she’s a momma and that’s just…well, we weren’t there, we can’t say what happened but…just keep looking love. There’s got to be a lot here we haven’t examined yet. Let’s sort this out instead of jumping to conclusions.”

Oddly Sherlock calmed down. Maybe it was because John seemed to need to embrace his lover, burying his face in Sherlock’s shirt to breathe deeply for a moment, “Good thing you can’t get me pregnant. I’d hate to have to find out which one of us was better at running away should something like this happen to us.” _He would track John to the ends of the earth if he had to. There would be no place Sherlock wouldn’t go to find him._

John giggled and then grew serious again, his small hand clutching the back of Sherlock’s coat, “I can’t stand the idea of it love. I just can’t. I’m just not that way. Yes, I’ve had a lot of one-offs. I made no commitment to anyone that I haven’t followed through with until the end. It doesn’t sit well with me to give my word and then break it. That’s…sometimes all a person _has_ is their word. I grew up with nothing. If people can’t trust what I promise, then what else do I have?” he looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, his own expression almost pained, “You’re so beautiful my love, of course, I worry someone else will catch your eye and take you from me. I could never stray from you, and I hope yo...”

Sherlock kissed John silent, “My _love_. You are the only person in the world for me. There’s no question of it, no doubt in my mind. No matter what, I trust you.” Sherlock did. The ugly feeling was gone. He would never give John a reason to wander, and he would never want to be with anyone but his soldier, and his soldier would never want to be with anyone but him. _No matter what, Sherlock Holmes believed in John Watson_. John sighed so deeply he nearly shuddered, then he melted back into Sherlock’s embrace, laying his head on Sherlock’s chest for a moment, “You’re the only one I could ever give myself to John.”

John’s arms tightened around him for a second before John nodded sharply and stood back, “Let’s solve this case, Sherlock. We have dinner with your mum and dad tomorrow, I don’t want to be late.”

“Very well John.” Stepping carefully Sherlock inspected the scene before calling Anderson in to photograph everything. Once all had been properly recorded they began a more in-depth examination of the space. They were given permission to begin opening drawers, and with gloves on they cautiously began to examine what was left in the flat. John found a photo album and flipped through it, “You don’t see many of these anymore. Everyone keeps all their pictures on their device.”

Sherlock examined it quickly. Jenny was blond, pretty, full-lipped, and heavily tattooed. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed again and he fished his viewer from his pocket, leaning in close to inspect her shoulder, “Lestrade.”

The DI came over. Sherlock handed him his viewer and waited. “Fucking _shit_.” Swore Lestrade, “She isn’t.”

“She _is_ , or perhaps her ex-husband was, and had her marked.” Sherlock felt grim. This had suddenly escalated beyond his reach and it was frustrating. This was about drugs and he wasn’t allowed to work cases featuring drugs, not even incidentally, and even if he were, the scale of this problem was much larger than a single family.

“What?” John took the viewer from Lestrade and examined the photo himself, “What is it?”

“It’s a mark of affiliation. Jenny has a _very_ particular tattoo. Either she or her husband is deeply involved with an international group of very dangerous people. Drug dealers, this is a very large organisation. I cannot be involved.” Sherlock was fuming inside because there was only one thing to do now. “Call my brother.”

“I’m not speaking to him.” snapped Lestrade, “Call him yourself.”

Sherlock looked at his brother’s partner. Lestrade was tense and angry now. Realisation flooded him even as John said, “We’ll meet up for pints later, how’s that? Tell us what a bastard he’s been, get it out.”

Lestrade was looking at John like he’d never seen him before. “Why?”

“Well, since you didn’t notice on your own…” John held up his hand to brandish his new ring, “Sherlock and I are engaged. We’re telling the folks tomorrow. We haven’t had a proper celebration or anything. Come out for drinks with us tonight and raise a few with me.”

Lestrade’s face shut down operations and he became a blank. “Congratulations Sherlock.” he said stiffly, “My very best wishes on your upcoming union.”

“John is a marvellous cook, come for dinner. We can go out after.” offered Sherlock instantly. He did like Lestrade a great deal, even respected him to a degree, which was more than he could say about Mycroft whom he disliked intensely. It was bad enough being watched all the time, or having his life disrupted over and over again, but to see those same tactics being employed on someone who one) didn’t need to be monitored like Sherlock did, and two) had given Mycroft everything of himself because that’s the sort of person Lestrade was, well, that angered Sherlock somehow and he was grateful for John’s cue to engage in a comforting social activity. Gregory Lestrade very obviously needed to de-stress and there was no one more relaxing to be around than John Watson.

“What about the case?” Lestrade looked confused for only a second before it all added up, and then he just looked resigned. “Right. _Politics_. Fucking shit hell anyway!”

John laughed easily, “Give me his number, I’ll call.”

Sherlock eagerly gave John Mycroft’s personal and very secret mobile number and watched as John thumbed it in with painful slowness. _Simply precious_. Raising it to his ear John waited, “Hey _Agent M_ , it’s _Agent J_. We’ve got a lovely mess down here that’s now yours. Here.” John sent Mycroft a snap of the tattoo, “We’ve got a missing mum and her tiny one. Set your dogs to finding them safely, alright? She’s fled. We’re putting out a report saying she’s dead because of this man,” John sent a picture of the husband as soon as Sherlock found one, “Or someone, is after her, and we don’t want that do we?”

Sherlock knew Mycroft would recognise the mark easily, and he had resources that far outstripped his, even if they lacked personality. This one small case would be tied to a complicated and very threatening number of other incidents, all well out of local authority’s ability to handle. Sherlock _could_ find Jenny and Mattie but what danger would he put them in by doing so? It was better if Mycroft’s people secured her and brought her someplace where she was safely invisible. He sighed and took the mobile from John and did Lestrade a favour, “Mycroft, we’re having dinner with Lestrade later. Jenny’s been on the run for about eight hours if the dried blood is anything to judge by. Find her.”

There was silence and then Mycroft said in a guarded voice, “ _I_ had plans with Gregory tonight.”

“Yes you _did_ but now you _don’t_. You have this big case to work on. _We’re_ having dinner with him, so find Jenny and Mattie.” Sherlock handed the mobile back to John who just ended the call without another word. Let his brother stew in his own juices for a while, it was the least discomfort he could endure for being such a cad.

Lestrade’s mobile rang only seconds later. Grim-faced he stepped away and answered it. Shamelessly John and Sherlock eavesdropped, “I don’t give a fuck what you went through to organise tonight. I already told you I _wasn’t_ …no… _fuck off_ Mycroft, I’m going to Baker Street tonight. I don’t know John and I feel I ought to. You’re busy anyway _, as usual_ , it’s not like you haven’t blown me off without a word dozens of times already.” He listened, “What _about_ tomorrow? What of it? I might be busy, I’m at work. I can’t say what cases will happen between now and then. I’m overworked and understaffed; like _you_ give a shit. It’s the weekend almost, people get crazy and do stupid shit all the fucking time, right? Fucking _goldfish_ , that’s all they are right?” He listened again, “Whatever Mycroft. Remember this the next time you cancel on me at the last second because some dignitary somewhere needs his arse kissed, and we all know that no one does that better than _you!_ ”

Sherlock was very concerned. He might not care for his brother but he knew for a fact Lestrade _did_. Their affair had grown slowly, cautiously, and had taken years to get to this point. Lestrade had been married and divorced twice since Sherlock had first met him a decade ago, his strange friendship with Mycroft eventually developing into the complicated relationship they currently were in. Out of respect, Sherlock had never referred to it, but John had outed the Detective Inspector immediately, not that that fact had changed anyone’s opinion of the DI. His co-workers seemed to like and respect him as much as ever. Sherlock made his choice, “What cases are you involved in? I want to go through some of them with John to show him how I work.” _It was plausible enough._ If Lestrade gave him access to his current files Sherlock would give him whatever assistance he could today, and that would increase Lestrade’s personal achievement record at work. His superiors would be impressed and take note of his other cases. It was a poor substitute for emotional stability, but it was what Sherlock could offer.

Lestrade was still expressionless, “We’ll head back to the office once the new people arrive.” _Mycroft’s people._ Sherlock grew more concerned. _If Lestrade was unwilling to even speak his brother’s name, how serious were their problems? Saturday was to have been Lestrade’s big introduction to the family, did he realise that? Had Mycroft explained nothing? Had he left it all until tonight, the night that was no longer happening? Fool!_ Sherlock hadn’t hesitated when it came to John. _Mycroft always went on about how intelligent he was. Clearly, he was an idiot._

It took less than an hour for a team to arrive. Silently Lestrade handed the scene over to them and made his own team leave for other work. Donovan refused to look at John, and Anderson was clearly trying to ignore their existence entirely. As they were walking away John turned and called over his shoulder, “So who wears the horse mask? You or Anderson?” and walked past the remaining officers singing _Mustang Sally_ loudly as the police all tried once more not to laugh. Sherlock looped his arm over John’s shoulder and walked tall.

They went to the Yard, and for once Sherlock conceded to a ride in a panda but only because John thought it was hilarious to be driven around in the back like they were criminals. Once they were in Lestrade’s office Sherlock sat down and began to pour over all the files on the desk, using post-it notes to write his opinions and suggestions down so Lestrade could discard them before handing in his file. John read for a while and began looking up things on his mobile. It took ages and Sherlock was exasperated on his behalf. Digging in his wallet he handed John his credit card, “There’s a decent electronics shop at this address,” he used John’s antique to key in the information. “Purchase the very latest mobile they have available, and a laptop as well. I prefer a large screen over a small one. It needs to be _the very best_ , but we don’t have ages to order one in, whatever they have in stock will be acceptable.”

John nodded sharply and marched himself away. Lestrade looked over, “You just _gave_ him your credit card. He could do anything with that thing.”

“So? I plan on giving him my hand in marriage, he’ll have access to everything when that’s done. I have things that need doing and he wants to do them. Should I be worried?” Sherlock waited to hear what Lestrade thought.

It took a few minutes of silence before Lestrade spoke, “You’re not like your brother at all, are you. You just took to John and that was it, wasn’t it? There was none of this _going slow_ or _taking it easy_ , or _being careful_. You just jumped in with both feet and that was it for you two, _instant commitment_.”

Sherlock considered his response carefully, “You know me better than anyone, even my family. You know I don’t believe in love at first sight but it is possible that John and I have experienced something exactly like that. We are highly compatible. No, I am not like Mycroft. Mycroft has been taught to restrain himself in every way, to put himself _after_ the needs of the work he does, to always put his responsibilities first. I have only had to be responsible for myself, and I haven’t done a very good job of it. You know I do whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. John likely won’t allow that to continue but because of _how_ we are together I am content with that outcome. I’m not sure if Mycroft has ever had a chance to be like that with anyone.”

Now Lestrade looked thoughtful but still angry, “So I get to deal with this kind of shit forever? It was supposed to be getting better, it’s like he’s not even trying.” His complaint was a relief. If Lestrade was saying words like _forever_ that meant he at least wasn’t considering breaking things off with Mycroft, and that was something at least. “He’s a good man, in his way. We work. Sort of. It’s complicated.” He sighed again and it sounded raw and exhausted.

Sherlock had nothing comforting to say. Instead, he bent his head over his work, solving many cases easily, and at least pointing out _the obvious_ in others. Let Lestrade do his own legwork, Sherlock was practically drawing him a map for each case that lead directly to the solutions. When he was done with the few active files he began on the cold cases. After an hour his mobile chirped a text _Hey sexy, I had to call Mycroft to get your mobile number, what an arse he is but at least he gave it to me. How’s this one?_ There was a photo of a laptop.

Sherlock eyed the brand. It was decent enough but Sherlock knew that John was being parsimonious. If he thought he had a choice in the quality of his gifts, then John Watson was sorely mistaken. Sherlock sent back one word: _upgrade_. Ten minutes later another photo arrived. This model was sleek and came with all the details Sherlock preferred. _Approved_. A new text from a different number arrived after a while. It was a selfie John had taken holding the new machine, using what was obviously his new mobile. Sherlock saved the number and sent back an emoticon heart. He never used the things but if there was ever an occasion then approving a picture of your lover holding the gifts you’d gotten him was one. John sent one back with the words _On my way_.

Greatly content Sherlock carefully resumed his review of the files. Many of them were boring, as well as scant of information. He still made careful note of them, filing information away in his mind palace, just in case connections happened at another time. Some few were very interesting and he quickly became engrossed. The smell of coffee lured him from the stack of paper and Sherlock couldn’t help the broad smile that covered his face. It was John. The soldier had a shoulder bag now that obviously contained the new laptop, and his arms were laden with plastic bags, his hands holding a small takeaway tray of steaming hot coffee, “Hello sweetheart, lunch-time.”

Lestrade looked back and forth between them as John made Sherlock take the bags and the coffee, fussily hanging his bag on Lestrade’s coat-rack, and making much of Sherlock until he had him settled with a sandwich he’d bought from somewhere, and a small bag of biscuits. Lestrade was startled when John set food out for him as well, and even provided another small bag of biscuits to go with his tall cup of coffee. “Thank you.” said the DI gruffly.

“We’ll all feel better for a bite,” said John sagely. He leant in and kissed Sherlock’s cheek quickly, “I missed having you with me though sweetheart, what did you work on?” Sherlock began to go over the files, lecturing John on each aspect in between bites which John broke off and popped into his mouth so Sherlock could hold the files open and point to relevant sections. Lestrade ate silently and watched them. When their meal was done John gathered up the wrappings and disposed of everything, producing a wet-wipe from his pocket which he handed to Sherlock. He gave one to Lestrade as well. The DI accepted it without comment, “So, what’s next?”

“We might be able to finish at least going through the cold cases in the office before we have to get going. We’ll need to shop for food since Lestrade is coming for dinner.” Sherlock eyed all the piles covetously. Lestrade rarely allowed him to help himself to his cold cases, he must really be distracted because he didn’t even flinch when Sherlock opened another cabinet drawer and pulled out a fresh handful.

“One more hour of playing with Lestrade, then we have to get going. I’m thinking _roast_.” That seemed reasonable so Sherlock began to read as fast as he could while John pulled out his new laptop and attempted to use it. With a fond smile, Sherlock took it from his lover to put in the correct information it was seeking whilst registering. When it was finally up and running he got John playing card games happily. That occupied the soldier for about five minutes before he shut it down and began reading files with Sherlock, his chair scooted over as close as it could go without impeding their movement too much. “This is so interesting.” muttered the soldier happily, “Look at all of these!” Sherlock had to kiss the top of John’s head to show his appreciation of yet another perfection. Their hour fled too soon but John was on a schedule now and would not be stayed, “Coming now or later?” he asked Lestrade genially.

Lestrade looked at the endless mounds of paperwork. Nothing new had come up that his regular team couldn’t handle, “Fuck it. I wasn’t supposed to be at work today anyway, I’m technically on vacation until Tuesday.”

“Well, let’s go! Up we get lads. Sweetheart, where’s the best place to get some wine to go with dinner?” John was full of smiles as he got them going, mother-henning them toward the exit, making sure they had their coats and wallets, and generally taking charge of the tiny exodus, chattily filling in all the empty spaces in the conversation that Sherlock and Greg were not using. They were off to have dinner with their first guest as a couple. Sherlock felt content all over again. He was going to get to the bottom of the situation between Lestrade and his brother and spend an enjoyable evening showing off his lover in front of someone who actually knew him. _Delightful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light on smut this round but there are reasons for everything. :D


	9. Taking a Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have invited Greg for an evening to relax.

They took Lestrade grocery shopping with them. With ease the soldier had both Sherlock and Greg laughing as they strolled around, randomly deciding on things to eat. Lestrade turned out to be very amiable. He and John hit it off about sports which Sherlock had no interest in so he was grateful he knew someone he trusted John with to be a friend in that regard. When they had what they wanted they strolled to a nearby shop to pick up several bottles of wine to fill the wine rack that Sherlock had purchased during his shopping spree before turning toward home.

It was incredibly pleasant. John was a genius at being friendly. They wandered back to Baker Street, and everyone stopped to say hello to Mrs Hudson who was going out for another of her many dates. John gave her a warm kiss on the cheek to wish her well, and then he kept the conversation going, keeping both Sherlock and Lestrade at ease while he prepared a large meal for the three of them. Glasses of wine were shared around and the evening quickly grew mellow.

John told stories of being in the army as he prepared side dishes to go with the massive roast now slowly cooking in the oven, and Sherlock was riveted. John was a natural storyteller, he wove each tale with simple words that were elevated into art by the tone of his voice, and by the way his face and body seemed to be as much a part of the telling. He called Greg by his name, including both men in his narrative, reaching out to touch Sherlock frequently, and encouraging the many questions that poured forth. _John was brave and brilliant, reckless and frightening_. Sherlock knew he was completely in love with the soldier and didn’t care to hide the fact from Lestrade whose eyes went from one face to another over and over again as he watched the pair of them together, “It’s like you’ve been married for years.” He said finally, “If I didn’t know Sherlock as well as I do I would swear you two had been together forever already.”

“How well do you know him?” John’s gaze was intense.

Greg was smart enough to realise he was being scrutinised and responded appropriately, “I’m probably the one person in the world who can say they know him at all, he’s a private man even if he is as vain as a peacock and lippy to boot. I first met him in an alley when this great huge idiot nearly died of an overdose. I got him to the hospital and he solved the case I was working on even though he was so high he couldn’t even sit up.  He passed out just before his emergency contact arrived. That’s the night I met Mycroft too.” Lestrade grew quiet for a moment before he continued, “He was terrified and pretending he was only irritated. He was certain Sherlock had finally done himself in, and he was almost in tears. I sat with them both all night long and I didn’t get a word out of either of them the entire time.”

“Well, I was in a bit of a coma at the time, so excuse my lack of social agility.” Sherlock enjoyed the way John giggled even though it was a terrible thing to laugh about.

Greg shook his head in fond exasperation, “You huge git. You nearly _died_ the night we met, and it wasn’t the first time I came across you after that. You were in nearly every low place we ever busted, and I’m sorry to tell you this John, but I’ve arrested Sherlock for drugs so many times by right he should have been in prison. You can thank that great rich family of his for bribing all the right people at all the right times otherwise your sweetheart would have been a jailbird.” Even with the dire news, Greg was smiling at Sherlock, “You would have been proud though. He was stubborn, you don’t want to know some of the crap I dealt with because of Sherlock, what a hateful little shit, but look at him now. It’s like he’s all grown up. I feel like a successful parent, but at the same time I’m so grateful he’s not my kid, can you imagine? A year ago I watched him become more stubborn than any person I’ve ever met, and I’m glad I was there to see it.”

“What about Mycroft?” John’s question ignored everything he’d just learned about Sherlock but he wasn’t worried. He’d tell John everything as soon as they could get to that part of their ongoing conversation. He had nothing to hide from his John. “How’d you get with him?”

Lestrade was quiet again and took a drink of his wine. John topped it the second his glass was down, “I suppose it was inevitable. Neither of us has time for a normal life. My marriages failed because the job always comes first, same with him, he can’t stay with anyone either for the same reason. We’re busy people. Mycroft _always_ makes time to come to Sherlock when he was needed, no matter what. I’d _always_ wait until he got there, and we just got used to having a bit of a talk before we parted ways, and after a few years those talks grew longer, and well, it was all very gradual. Now I can’t even imagine what life would be like without him, he’s everywhere. I mean that too, I’m not trying to be flip.”

Sherlock nodded, “Mycroft makes your average stalker look like a rank beginner. I’m positive the flat is being watched right now.”

John looked out the windows, startled, “What, he’s watching us right now?”

“CCTV.” Sherlock answered, “He has access to all of that.”

“What else?” John didn’t look pleased.

“Well, he’s bugged the flat more than once,” reported Sherlock. He’d found devices on several occasions and destroyed them all.

“WHAT?” cried John and Greg in unison, John continued, “Sweetheart, he invades our privacy? Now? Would he have _things_ in here now? Check Sherlock, right this instant.” John’s fists were curling and he was on the verge of scowling.

Sherlock stood right up, “If he’s foolish enough to have done so we will find out.” _He should have thought of this sooner! Of course, John would be horrified to find that his privacy had been violated. Who wouldn’t?_ Sherlock had nothing to hide but he also had nothing to share, and suddenly the idea of someone having watched them in front of the fireplace made him furious.

John hovered in the background while Sherlock inspected all the nooks and crannies of 221 B Baker Street with Greg’s assistance. The DI was no fool when it came to his job, and it was he that found the first. It was in the kitchen above the arch of the door, and John’s face grew still and cold, “How long has that been there do you think?”

“Less than a week John, I swept the flat before we met. I have not thought to do it again, and I bitterly regret that.” All three of them looked at the device and all three of them flipped it off before John hit it with the bottom of a heavy pan to smash it to bits.

The second one was above their bedroom door but pointed toward the stairwell to the spare room. John hit it with a pan as well. The third was in the front room and for this one, John growled, “He must have done it the morning we met. _Leave it_.”

“What? Why?” demanded Lestrade. It was hidden in the eye of the human skull Sherlock kept on his mantle. With relief, he noted that the view was obstructed by the width of the mantle itself and the line of sight would not have included the area right in front of the fireplace where he and John had made love. _At least their privacy had been somewhat kept but the sofa! The sofa was in full view_. John snatched the skull up and sat it on Sherlock’s chair, angling it so it was taking in the opposite chair where Lestrade now sat and continued to include the sofa where he and Sherlock sat. John went to the kitchen and got another bottle of wine, pouring a generous measure for each of them, “Go fuck yourself Mycroft.” John and Lestrade both flipped off the skull one more time and took a drink of their wine. Sherlock had a sip, and with a small sigh he sat back and let John help Greg exorcise his frustrations safely.

A review of the flat rendered no more bugs so they poured more wine, dug out some playing cards, and with the skull, all three of them began to seriously drink. When at long last the roast was done they staggered to the kitchen and with some minor peril, managed to get it served up, the slices all perfect because drunk or not, John was still John and he obviously had been a damn fine surgeon when he’d still been able to practice. They put a small serving in front of the skull and a shot-glass with a bit of wine in it, and ate their meal with a great deal of laughter and enjoyment.

Lestrade helped wash up while Sherlock held the skull, directing questions at it as if Mycroft were actually with them. The moment things were tidy John said, “Wine’s not going to do it. Let’s go get something serious to drink.”

That sounded like a grand idea to all of them so they bundled up, put a beanie on the skull, and the four of them managed to walk somewhat gracefully to the shops where they procured a generous assortment of spirits and hauled them all back the Baker Street. “He’s been busy for three months now. We’ve only managed to get together about six times. My birthday was this week.” Greg slurred only a tiny bit, “ _Mycroft_ forgot. Sherlock always forgets, I never expect him to remember, but I _told_ Mycroft, and he said he’d remember but he didn’t.”

John stared at Greg with dismay on his beautiful face. Sherlock wilted when the gaze turned to him, “Oh sweetheart, you have so few friends. How could you forget Greg’s birthday?”

“I’m sorry John! I don’t even celebrate my own!”

“He doesn’t, s’fact.” Greg drank a test-tube dry in one long gulp.

“I’ve never given Lestrade anything.” Sherlock handed Lestrade the whisky bottle and watched as the DI refilled the rack.

“Nope, he hasn’t.” Lestrade was concentrating and John braced the rack with his fingers to keep it from jiggling.

“I’m sorry Gregory.” Sherlock felt bad. He’d disappointed John and it cut at him. _He had to learn to be better, he had the capacity, he’d just been lazy._

“Don’t call me _Gregory._  Only uptight twats call me Gregory, and it’s alright Sherlock. Those sorts of things have never mattered to you and that’s okay, but I made a big deal out of your brother’s birthday and he promised he’d do the same and he didn’t. He forgot. Then he used me to make you come running because of John. Fucker.” Lestrade was getting maudlin now.

“I’m baking you a cake.” announced John before he pointed a demanding finger at their assortment, “Let’s start with the expensive stuff and work our way to the cheap.” They didn’t have enough shot glasses since the skull was using the only one but Sherlock fished out another rack of test-tubes and carefully filled all of them with measures of whisky. Greg put himself in charge of keeping the test-tubes full. John had new cake pans thanks to Sherlock, and happily, the soldier made Sherlock look up a recipe online. They found an easy one and soon all three of them were engaged in making a mess and drinking.

It turned out surprisingly alright. The kitchen smelled heavily of vanilla now, and there was a tiny bit of a pause when they realised that one-half was twice the height of the second half but John just found an extra-long knife and sliced the taller one in two. He then found a jar of jam and cleverly used the contents to glue the cake back together while Sherlock figured out how to mix icing from ingredients he stole from Mrs Hudson’s flat. When John found out about the theft he wobbled back down to her flat with a note that promised reparation when they were sober. She was still out so her date must have gone well.

As soon as it was cool enough Sherlock iced the cake while John made party hats out of paper plates. He drew on penises and breasts which made Greg laugh almost hysterically. John gave Lestrade the scissors and a pad of orange post-it notes. Greg cut the slips into thin strips when he then used to make hair for the skull. They took a photo of it and sent it to Mycroft.

They sang Greg the birthday song while toasting him with more whisky, letting him cut the cake while John filmed it, and he sent that clip to Mycroft as well. They served a huge slice to the skull, photographed it, sent it to Mycroft, then together they ate the rest of the cake in its entirety, drinking shots, and laughing. “What’s the fucking deal with your brother anyway?” demanded Lestrade at long last.

“Don’t ask _me_. He doesn’t tell me anything. I’m just one of his jobs.” Mycroft was literally his brother’s keeper. He’d spent his entire life watching Sherlock, and tonight was the first time Sherlock’s had fun with that situation.

“He loves you, Sherlock, you know he does.” Lestrade was shaking his head.

“That’s the party line but I don’t have to believe it.” Sherlock knew Mycroft would always look after him but only because he’d been made to. If it were up to his older brother Sherlock would have been kept in an institution for the rest of his days. He’d said so several times.

Lestrade sighed, “Well he does no matter how badly you two get on. Those devices were not good but it’s just how he thinks. He can’t be here all the time, and it drives him spare knowing there are times when you could be harmed and he wouldn’t know until it was too late. He worries for you, constantly.”

“So he says, _Greg_! Luckily for me, he has _you_ to do the worrying about me for him!” Sherlock instantly regretted his words when Lestrade visibly shut down and became blank again.

John was not impressed, “That’s Sherlock’s way of saying he cares about you and he’s really sorry you’re not happy right now. Honestly, what’s the hold Mycroft has on you anyway?”

Switching gears instantly Sherlock saw that Lestrade was leering, “Sherlock, cover your ears lad.” Greg didn’t give Sherlock time to protect himself, “He’s fucking _amazing_ in bed, and that mouth! I don’t know what it is but I shit you not Watson, I’ve never fucked anyone as _kinky_ as Mycroft. He’s ruined me for anyone else. When he is good he is very very good, and when he’s bad he is _wicked_. The first time we finally had sex was so bloody intense, it took me days to get over it, fuck!”

Sherlock’s mind palace was unfortunately hampered by drink and was incapable of expunging this information instantly, “Why would you tell me such things? I’m going to be ill!”

John ignored Sherlock’s complaint, “So that’s it? Great sex?”

“No that’s not all. We’re good together, fantastic together, even when I’m pissed right the fuck off with him, like tonight. Fucker. I love him though, he loves me too, he’s just… _a Holmes_.” Sherlock looked at John who was watching Lestrade closely, “You can’t judge by Sherlock. Sherlock’s barely a Holmes by their standards. Mycroft is just…he’s like…you have to…” Greg sighed, “Look, it’s taken me years to get to know him the way I do, I can’t explain it really. Our lives run to the same beat. Our work is our _everything_ except for each other. Yes, he’s ditched me time and again, but honestly, I’ve done the exact same thing to him just as many times. I can’t leave a case right in the middle, or if some big emergency happens, well then, dinner is a miss that night isn’t it?” Greg grew quiet, “We used to spend a lot of time at hospitals or clinics or whatever, always waiting for Sherlock. When that stopped happening we started meeting for coffee to talk about his progress, and then to just talk to each other, and then it wasn’t about Sherlock at all. It took time though, lots of time.” Lestrade chuckled, picked up a test-tube and tossed it back, “Mycroft is the one who broke first but fuck, am I ever glad he couldn’t hold himself back, what a night.”

John was nodding vigorously, “Sherlock’s a living fantasy. I kid _you_ not. I’m not going to say but yeah, I understand friend, I _understand_.” John looked at the skull and shook a finger at it, “You’ve got a good man here Mycroft Holmes, you should be treating him right _all the time_ not just once in a while! What’s wrong with you? Change your knickers, your balls are in a bunch. Pull your head out of your arse and use it to think of how to not be such a shithead…” John burst out laughing, “His head is up his arse and I called him a shithead.” This amused the soldier so much his boyish and enthusiastic laughter caused Greg and Sherlock to laugh with him. John resumed his lecture, “You’re a pompous creeper. I knew it the second we met. Use your creepiness to re-evaluate the prize you are letting slip away! Greg doesn’t deserve to be _forgotten_! How many times has he been there for you and your brother? I don’t even know because I don’t even know but _you_ know you know, right? You _know_. Jerk. What a fuck-up. Sweetheart, you said he was a genius or something. He doesn’t strike me as very smart but I might need another drink.”

John was highly entertaining. He dragged them all back to the front room where more shots were poured, cards dealt out and forgotten, and all three of them proceeded to get roaring drunk. John kept taking pictures of things and sending them to Mycroft. He also managed to procure crisps and more biscuits, and soon all three of them were nearly groaning, “My trousers are too tight.” moaned Lestrade as he rubbed his overfilled belly, “Why’d we eat so much?”

“Take ‘em off, I don’t care.” John stood up and took his trousers off and tossed them to the side. Sherlock followed suit and soon all three of them were sitting around the coffee table in only their pants and vests, playing a game of cards for shots, and weaving back and forth even though they were sitting. Sherlock realized he was _enjoying_ himself though he’d never imagined sitting on the carpet so his knees would fit under the coffee table because he needed to lean on the sofa because he was so drunk and they were playing some kind of card game that involved a lot of going over the rules because they kept forgetting would be so engaging. Lestr… _Greg_ was diverting, and not a bore. He made John laugh and Sherlock appreciated that because John deserved to be happy. He’d _seriously_ under-rated social activities, good on John for letting him experience it thusly. _They’d do this again sometime. Being intoxicated by the drink wasn’t so bad._

Sherlock had to use the loo eventually. He nearly knocked the coffee table over but John and Greg reassured him over and over again that that sort of thing just happened and it was okay.  It took a bit of hanging onto the walls and sink to make it, and everything had a strange wobbly underwater quality to it, and it seemed to take a really long time. When he came back Lestrade was stretched out on the sofa. The DI was fast asleep, cradling the skull in his arms, and he was cuddling it under the crocheted lap blanket Mrs Hudson had given Sherlock. John was smiling fondly at the man, “He’s a good bloke. They’ll be alright love, he just needed to vent. I don’t think there’s actually a problem, it’s just…separation anxiety.”

Rational sounding or not John was still very drunk, as was Sherlock, but he still managed to crowd Sherlock into the bedroom, “Lestrade is right out there, he can _hear_ us!” whispered Sherlock loudly. John’s hands were on his behind, kneading and groping through the fabric. It felt diabolically good, especially when John began to meaningfully rub his fingers up and down the crease.

“He’s passed out but we can be really really quiet.” John shushed Sherlock which only made them both giggle, “Let me into your pants, Sherlock, come on.”

That made them giggle even more. They kissed passionately for several long moments, their hands roaming everywhere. Sherlock let John tug away their pants, and then he let John push him back onto the bed, and then he let John lay back so he could suck him off. The soldier leaned up against the headboard while Sherlock knelt in front of him. Without hesitation Sherlock leaned down and just did it, his mouth already wrapped around John’s half-hard length, neither man thinking clearly. They just wanted to fuck, so they were. If Sherlock had been sober he would have taken things gradually. He would have taken his time learning how to open his mouth, how to let John’s cock in, how to move. He might have tried teasing John the way John teased him but they _were_ drunk so he didn’t.

The lesson was fast and easy, “No teeth.” John’s hands were on either side of Sherlock’s head, guiding him up and down gently, “Try not to gag, you don’t need to have it all in.” John got hard fast, “Yeah, the head. Lick around then suck on it lightly.” Sherlock loved the feel of John’s cock in his mouth. He liked the way John’s foreskin felt against his lips. He enjoyed how wide his mouth needed to open to accommodate just the beginnings of John’s cock. He loved the taste of it. He loved the way John’s fingers threaded into his hair, the soft moans he was beginning to make. _Sherlock was doing that! He was making John moan!_ His own penis was hard, and even through the drunken haze, Sherlock was vaguely aware that it would feel good to touch it, maybe to stroke it. He reached down and began to do so, now joining John in sighing and moaning. Of course, John noticed. “What are you doing? Touching yourself? Sexy! My sexy man. I want to touch you, suck you.” John pushed Sherlock’s head away and made him lay back on the bed, nearly devouring Sherlock in his eagerness to fellate him. Sherlock moaned loudly, “Shh, we have to be quiet!” shushed John. Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand and tried to keep it down but John was so very good at what he was doing. Sherlock kept his head raised, unable to stop watching John who was now standing on the floor but bent over the bed, his hands on the backs of Sherlock’s thighs which were wide-spread, and _oh my_ …the _things_ John could do!

John’s mouth was something _magical_. He used it to explore the entirety of Sherlock’s shaft, his lips and tongue probing and sucking, licking and pressing. If not for the alcohol Sherlock knew he would have spent himself almost instantly, that’s how good it was. He was moaning shamelessly now and John had also seemed to have forgotten they had a guest out front. “Please John!” Sherlock didn’t know what he was begging for but John seemed to know anyway.

“I’m going to make you come, Sherlock.” Promised the soldier hotly. He was as good as his word. John took Sherlock’s cock in his hand and began to stroke, expertly twisting his fist, sometimes rubbing over the head, the pressure exactly perfect, and he did not falter. Sherlock was gasping his lover’s name out, his back arching as his head pushed into the pillows he was laying on, and his moan was loud and rang out, filling the room with the announcement of John’s success.

Sherlock’s cock stayed hard and John did not stop. Eagerly the soldier bent low, swiping his tongue over everything, wetting Sherlock more before using his thumb to work over his frenulum. Sherlock was back to panting loudly. It took only a few short minutes it seemed and then his back was arching again, his cry more of a guttural grunt as his seed pulsed out to join the first batch still on his belly, “Third time yeah?” asked John who was relentless, “I’m going to make you come _three times_ Sherlock, and then I’m going to fuck your mouth until I come in it.”

 _Oh, John!_ Sherlock was wordless because John had his hand on him again and that’s all there was in the world. It was simply pleasure, and John toyed with him now, rubbing his nipples, sliding his free hand over Sherlock’s chest, moving down to his thighs, inward to cup his testicles, and then John began to use one spit-dampened finger to swirl around Sherlock’s anus. “You’re beautiful Sherlock, so beautiful. My beautiful man, all mine.” John sounded slurred but intent, his hand did not slow or stop, “That’s it lovely one, go on, come for me. I love seeing you come, I love how you look, how you sound. I love everything about you Sherlock, my Sherlock, my beautiful detective, my brilliant genius, my mad crazy insane love.”

“John!” How his words affected him, how was it the when _John_ said things that Sherlock could feel his words right in his bones? How was John able to make him orgasm over and over again, shouldn’t he need time to recuperate in-between? It made no matter if he was supposed to or not. John clearly had it down perfectly, he knew exactly how to slide and rub, he knew what amount of pressure Sherlock needed and where, he knew how to gauge his strokes, how to tug and pull, and even push down when he needed to. “John!” he cried out again.

This time when he came he barely produced any semen but the sensation was so intense he was sure he was sobbing a little as his cock throbbed and his entire body trembled. John barely hesitated, kneeling by Sherlock’s head, inserting the tip of his cock into Sherlock’s mouth, and fisting himself almost harshly, “Sherlock, those lips, fucking hell are you gorgeous.” Sherlock did his best to accept John as much as he could, using his tongue to awkwardly lick around but John was doing most of it. He kept his eyes on John’s face, and that seemed to turn the soldier on. “You make me feel so good, so fucking good, Sherlock, fuck.” John was grunting loudly again and this time Sherlock remembered to keep his mouth wide open, catching most but not all of John’s seed. Some jetted against the back of his throat exactly the right way to make him gag a bit but he managed to swallow and opened his mouth immediately once more so John could finish.

Sherlock decided to do what John always did and he licked his lover clean. It was a bit strange because a fair amount of John’s body hair had rushed back. It felt odd against his tongue but not unpleasant, and the taste of semen was still very strange, but John was sighing happily as he accepted Sherlock’s ministrations. It was impossible to stop and before Sherlock realised what he was doing he had taken John’s cock back into his mouth and was lazily sucking on it. John wasn’t getting hard again but Sherlock didn’t care, he just liked doing it, and experimentally he licked at John’s testicles, and all along his inner thighs, and the bottoms of his buttocks. John snored.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked at his lover who was well and deeply asleep. The room was spinning a bit but he managed to wobble his way to the loo to rinse out a flannel in hot water. Shakily he made his way back to their bedroom, completely unmindful of his own nudity, and cleaned John up properly before managing to almost fall his way back to the loo to relieve himself and to also wash up. It seemed very important to be clean so he brushed his teeth and rinsed the flannel out again and again as he wiped himself down fastidiously.

Sherlock had never been so drunk before but he had been high plenty of times and this wasn’t so bad. John was exposed and it was chilly in the room, so with great care, Sherlock managed to get the duvet free and spent a fair amount of time tucking John in. When he was done the soldier was wrapped up in a bundle and Sherlock couldn’t get to him. Undoing all his work Sherlock settled for laying the duvet on top like it was supposed to be and snuggled behind his lover, “It’s me, _Sherlock_. I’m going to hold you while we sleep, okay? It’s alright if you hit me later because I know you sometimes don’t like being held so much, but it’s seriously okay. I just like having you close, it’s worth a punch in the eye if that happens because I really like you, John. I more than like you but you probably know that already since we’re getting married and I’m having sex with you. Okay, I’m holding you now, and I’m probably going to pass out.”

John made some sort of noise which Sherlock decided was agreement. Cuddling close he pressed his nose to the back of John’s head and enjoyed the slightly sweaty and oily smell of it because John had not showered before he lost consciousness. Sherlock ran his hand up and down John’s side first before catching his lover in a tight hug. With a smile, Sherlock closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep.

He was so under he didn’t feel John turn in his arms. He didn’t feel the soldier’s own limbs twine and tangle with his, or feel how John’s hand cupped his bottom to pull him close. He slept through John tucking his head under Sherlock’s chin, and the way the sleeping soldier still kissed Sherlock’s neck a bit, “Love you.” mumbled John in between snores, “Mine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in snippets and bits when I had time and the proper mindset. I hope it worked out.


	10. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock gave Greg a night off from his regular life and it's done them all a world of good, but now the party is over. What's on the agenda for today?

John woke up when they heard the front door click shut. With a rather agile twist of his body he turned himself completely around and partially sat up, his arm extended to keep Sherlock behind him until he saw the room was empty. Regardless of how hard it was to keep their burning eyes open, or to ignore their roiling bellies John and Sherlock climbed right out of bed to investigate, barely taking the time to cover themselves with their robes. Mycroft was in the flat when they got out front, but Mrs Hudson’s distinctive perfume hung in the air. Somehow or other Holmes the Elder had managed to convince her to not only let him into the building but to allow him into his brother’s home. Even still John stood between Sherlock and his sibling, his arm still poised to push Sherlock back into the bedroom at a moment’s notice.

After determining they were safe John and Sherlock stood in the hallway, sore-headed and sour-stomached, and just looked at Mycroft. He ignored them, concentrating instead on Greg who was just waking up. With great gentleness, the elder Holmes took the silver-haired man’s hands in his and bent his head low over them, “I know you are angry with me, my beloved, and rightly so. I beg only for a chance to explain.”

John made an _ooh_ sound and waved at Mycroft who glanced at them before resuming in a very soft voice, “Gregory. I wounded you this week and it was carelessness _not_ lack of love that caused it. Anthea is training a new PA, and _she_ deleted my evening with you on your birthday because of an emergency elsewhere _but that is no excuse_. I should have remembered on my own and should not have relied on someone else to prompt me. I had hoped to make some of that up to you last night but I accept that I did not deserve your time or the gift of your company after such a slight.” Mycroft sighed and looked at the floor, not even trying to meet his lover’s eyes, “You have been so very patient with me, my beloved, I do not know how you’ve managed to put up with my many faults over and over again, but you know I never make the same mistake twice, though that gives me plenty of opportunities to try out fresh mistakes all the time … Gregory … I am so sorry I hurt your feelings. I dislike intensely that I caused you any further stress … my darling … please forgive me yet again.”

“Did you bring coffee?” was all Greg said. The DI was still hugging the skull and rolled to his side to look at Mycroft. His face was pale and blotchy with sleep, and he didn’t appear to be feeling any better than Sherlock did. John was just standing there, and despite how he too must be feeling, he stood calm and alert.

Mycroft smiled a tiny bit, “Yes my darling, right from your favourite kiosk.” There was indeed a large tray of takeaway coffee sitting on the table, enough for all of them.

“What did you do last night?” Greg’s tone was gruff again but gentle too. Sherlock strangely felt himself relax as he witnessed the continuation of the shared feelings between the man who was his only sibling and the man who was one of the rare few who had earned Sherlock’s respect.

“I found the mother and child, we’ve relocated them to a safe-house. The case is ongoing.” Mycroft seemed incapable of dissembling directly to his lover and Sherlock was amazed he had not witnessed this behaviour before. Rapidly he cast his mind back to previous occasions when he was in company with both of them and realised that if he had not ignored his brother so intently he could have reassured Lestrade last night of his brother’s deep abiding regard for him. “Why are you in your pants?”

“We over ate.” Greg sounded absent-minded as he answered, “What made you think it was a good idea to get me to call Sherlock in the other day? You promised you wouldn’t…” Greg stopped talking and scowled at his lover who hung his head.

Mycroft sighed heavily and remained on his knees, “I was aware Sherlock had met someone. I have information about Captain Watson through my sources but it wasn’t enough, though what I know _is_ troubling, I still could not interfere if interference was not warranted. Sherlock has earned at least that much faith from me. I knew that if there was something wrong with John _you_ would pick up on it immediately. You have the emotional intelligence I lack, you know this is why I need you! I cannot risk acting against Sherlock in that manner. Without your guidance, I would have done things my way, abducted the doctor perhaps, or even worse. You know my methods, you’ve chided me enough about them. Perhaps I should have asked you first but if you’d known in advance you wouldn’t have used the most amazing skill about you, your _intuition_. You _read_ people Gregory, you see into their heart despite whatever they may have said or done. You _saw_ Sherlock the day you met, and you saw me, and I _knew_ you would see John. I trust you, Gregory. I trust you with the one person I trust with no one else, my _only_ brother, the person I have cared for since the day he was born! I needed to know if I could finally let go if John really was the person to balance Sherlock out.”

“Why’d you bug the flat?” Greg looked pointedly at the man in front of him. Clearly, this had been a matter they’d discussed and just as clearly, Mycroft had transgressed.

Mycroft winced, “My apologies. I know I overstepped greatly.” Mycroft turned to his brother for a moment, “I confess to installing them. The feed comes to me directly. Nothing was kept, _all_ the files have been deleted. No one has access except me, and I … well I did not review anything. It wasn’t until _after_ I placed the devices that I decided to let Gregory take point on the matter of John Watson.”

“Hey cool, I’m _a matter_. Feels important.” John leant back and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him for mutual support.

Greg sat there on the sofa, hungover and bleary, staring at his lover who knelt beside him. “You really can be a prick.”

Mycroft didn’t argue. “Yes Gregory, you’ve mentioned that on several occasions.”

“Come here, give us a kiss then.” Mycroft instantly leant in, and stale alcohol or not gave Greg a long and almost fierce kiss. “It’s okay babe. I just wanted to know that you’re trying and you are, but you know you can try a _bit_ harder. This was all unnecessary and you know it.” Greg softened his words with another tender kiss. John stood there and stared openly at them but Sherlock couldn’t stop gagging. “Shut up Sherlock, you can always take _your_ boyfriend back to bed instead of staring at _mine_.”

“Let’s go, John. I’m nauseated now.” He really was. His arms tightened a bit more around John who always made him feel better.

“Well, the doctor is in.” John winked saucily at Sherlock and almost dragged him back to their room. As soon as the door was shut John said, “ _See?_ Nothing wrong. Greg just needed to blow off some steam and it looks like he knows how to handle your brother. Tonight won’t be so rough for all of us.”

He was wise as well as beautiful. “You’re a good man John Watson.” Sherlock needed to urinate but nothing in the world could induce him to leave the sanctuary of their room where he might possibly witness something devastating like his brother making up with Lestrade right out in the open.

“No, I’m not, I’m just not a jerk.” John didn’t seem to care about the topic anymore and invested his time in getting Sherlock back under the blankets, “My head is killing me, and I need tea and the loo, but I need a cuddle more.” John was adorable. He snuggled up to Sherlock and both of them lay tightly together and were happily miserable. They waited until they heard the door close a second time, and then John checked, “They’re gone.”

The loo was absolutely necessary by then and so they took turns using it. A long hot shower went a long way toward making them feel a bit better, and after John issued them their maximum allotment of paracetamols, followed by lots of hot sweet tea that was consumed along with a few slices of dry toast. They still weren’t feeling great but they had things to do that day so reluctantly they dressed to go out. Stubbornly John wore _only_ his old things, with the great exception of new and rather dapper looking shoes, “Well look where we’re going Sherlock, you know as well as I Reynold is going to throw all of this away.”

Reynold did. The moment they arrived for the final check on John’s new suit the tailor almost cried when he looked at John’s clothes. The soldier rolled his eyes but divested himself of everything and dropped it into the bin to stand there in just his pants, “Doctor Watson, you will _never_ need to suffer like that again.” promised the designer who was still a bit emotional about it all, “For you.” A small line of assistants poured from the back room on cue, “We made you our priority customer this week, what do you think?”

Reynold and his assistants showed John not just his new suit, but four new shirts, and two new pairs of trousers. There were several partially constructed pieces waiting for the soldier and once more the long room became organised chaos as John was re-fitted once more, and then rather ceremoniously helped into his new suit to see how it looked.

Sherlock couldn’t speak. He remembered how he’d felt the very first time he’d seen John who’d been almost naked, that amazing first moment when for a brief instant Sherlock had understood what it felt like to believe in a deity. Now his lover was covered head to toe, his tie caught neatly at his throat, every button smartly in place, a waistcoat in John’s own family tartan, his trousers loose-fit but still snug enough to show how strong and fit John actually was without hampering him, and when he could force himself to look upward Sherlock found that his lover was gazing at him with that particular soft expression in his eyes. “Very suitable John.” Sherlock used his words politely but his eyes were telling John more and he smiled, “You’ll fit right in.”

“Oh I know I will.” John’s words were also innocuous but his wink was as sassy as it got. It took all of Sherlock’s self-control to not react because they hadn’t had sex today, and they weren’t likely to because after they were done here it would nearly be time to get going if they caught lunch quickly on the way out of London, but Sherlock _would_ have sex with John given even a modicum of privacy because he was absolutely irresistible. They might have time if space could be arranged. Anthea would find them wherever they were, and Reynold could have John’s things delivered right to Baker Street and Mrs Hudson, “I’m looking forward to _after_ we get back from dinner.”

Sherlock sighed as his hopeful fantasy evaporated. “As am I, my dear.” Reynold was nearly wiggling around as he smiled but kept silent, working on checking every detail of John’s suit. With a lot of a flourish, the small man produced a rather sturdy looking but a practical exterior coat. The material complemented John’s suit but was plain and rugged enough to be worn in many circumstances. Sherlock entirely approved. _It wasn’t as dramatic as his Belstaff but then, John was a visually subtle person, that’s what made him so delectable. He kept himself unassuming in appearance. There was no hint of the killer beneath the threads_. Sherlock’s heart raced again. _He was going to marry this man!_

“We have time for a small meal before we go.” Gracefully Reynold allowed them to leave even though it was obvious the small man wanted them to remain for further fittings.

“Just a quick bite. You’re not making me late.” John firmly took Sherlock’s hand as they strode down the city streets. There was a bit of swagger in John’s walk and Sherlock’s heart felt full because _he_ had put that spring in his lover’s step. They wandered around until they came across a little hole-in-the-wall business that sold steamed buns, all stuffed with different fillings. John eagerly ordered several and they ate as they strolled through yet another park, just enjoying the damp air and overcast sky as if it were the warmest and bluest of days. They found someplace to get something to drink and after an hour or so of just enjoying one another Sherlock’s mobile rang, “Anthea.”

John looked around and spotted a long black car that had an elegant and stylish woman standing on the street next to it. She was dark haired, professional looking, and her attention seemed entirely fixed on the mobile in her hand, “I bet that’s her, I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Indeed, my dear.” John _was_ dear. _He was precious and rare and perfect._ Gratefully Sherlock took the arm that was offered him and allowed John to escort him directly to Mycroft’s PA. She didn’t say a word, merely opening the passenger door before taking herself away to the front seat with the driver, the privacy screen between the two sections firmly closed, “We’ll be there in time for dinner.”

“Sound like it’s a long way off.” John was smiling, “That’s okay. It doesn’t matter where we are.” It most certainly did not. Sherlock was barely aware of the time that went by as the vehicle worked its way through London. Once again John was amusing, diverting, engaging, and full of warm smiles that were for Sherlock and Sherlock alone. The soldier’s giggles were as infectious as ever, and with much laughter, Sherlock explained his family, “They are very proper. They aren’t cruel people, at least I don’t think so. Mummy and Papa did their best with us, but I wasn’t often in the best state to appreciate that. I was a very self-centered child, and worse as a youth. I’ve always had a difficult time relating to anyone.”

“Well, you don’t seem to have a problem with me. I guess I’m the lucky one, _the only one_ who gets on with Sherlock Holmes. I find I don’t mind that fact a bit.” Sherlock was delighted again. No one ever found his company so enjoyable. No one ever spent hours just holding his hand and telling small jokes, or asking a thousand questions about how Sherlock grew up, or what his interests were at various ages, or what his favourite things were. After a rest-stop, they climbed back in to continue their journey and John paused before taking Sherlock’s hand again, “I know I’m prying. Just tell me if I’m digging too much. I told you I cling.”

Sherlock smiled fondly at his lover and felt that wonderful warmth in John’s eyes seep into his heart, “I very much enjoy it, John. I don’t think you have anything to worry about in that regard.”

John looked cautiously relieved, “I’m only saying because the few times I have managed to have a boyfriend or a girlfriend they end up breaking it off with me because I’m a little _too_ interested in what they’re doing with all their time. Most people like a bit of privacy and I’m apparently not capable of that.”

Sherlock thought about this for a moment, “I’ve been observed my entire life. Apart from the few occasions where I’ve managed to lose myself from view, I have been constantly watched by someone, if not _several_ someones. It was never an act of affection, it was always with a mind to keep me from behaving in too unseemly a fashion, that I might not sully the name of _Holmes_ too greatly. That you, my lover, the person I wish to spend my life with, want to know every last detail of me is not unpleasant. Indeed it is a very great relief to know that someone in the world finds me interesting at all, that anyone finds me acceptable company for any amount of time, or that someone would be brave enough to legally attach themselves to me on purpose.”

John laughed, his whole body shaking, “On _purpose_!” he chortled, “Yes love, _completely_ on purpose. I know what I’m doing and I sure hope you do too, I want to marry you, Sherlock. I couldn’t be happier.” John lifted Sherlock’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to it, causing Sherlock’s cheeks to heat with the enjoyment he felt whenever John did this, “I guess you’re used to stalker-mode because of your brother. I can’t promise to be any better, except I don’t know how to do anything on computers really, and I’m only learning how to use my mobile.”

Sherlock now took John’s hand and returned the kiss, “If you kept your eyes fixed solely on me for the rest of our days I would be content. I find within myself a hunger that only you seem interested in feeding.”

John was smiling hugely now, “Oh I’ll eat you up, don’t worry about that.” Sherlock flushed deeply and that delighted John all over again, “I can’t believe I met you. I can’t believe you asked me to marry you. I can’t believe you don’t mind if I obsess over you because I will.” _Would he? John! His beautiful and so very perfect John_.

Sherlock was similarly awed, “You said _yes_ to me so many times already. It seems like a dream.” There was nothing to be done but to lean over and kiss John tenderly to demonstrate his ever-increasing affection and dedication to his soldier, “You suit me better than any other person I have ever come across. Now the only bar I can imagine is one of my own blood. I do not know how you’ll be received, John. I do not even know for certain if you are expected, I made no attempt to contact my family.”

“I don’t mind being a surprise but if they throw me out I’m not sure how I’m getting back to Baker Street. I don’t have any money.” Sherlock laughed but also took out his credit card and handed it back to John, “Why?”

“If you are indeed _thrown out,_ which is unlikely, then you can get back to Baker Street any way you choose but make sure it’s for two because you are not leaving without me. There’s also the small chance of an intervention happening in which case I’d appreciate you breaking me out of whatever mental facility I’m being incarcerated in.”

He’d meant to sound joking but the fact of the matter was that it had happened before, more than once, and every time Sherlock had been tricked into it by people he was supposed to trust. The best he could say for Mycroft was that his older brother had never once been present when Sherlock had been taken away forcibly for treatment but had always been there to make sure his brother was released as soon as it was possible. Against his will, Sherlock began to feel a bit charitable toward his only sibling.

John wasn’t smiling. He looked serious, all his smiles and laughter completely absent, “Has anyone done that to you?”

Sherlock realised he probably should have mentioned this earlier but he truly did not think on it. It was a distressing part of his past he avoided recalling, and it had been a long time since he’d been restrained and forced to get clean. Still, there was no lying to John, not ever. He’d try to make a point of giving John at least the broad strokes of his life, if not all the fine detail, at least, not yet. The telling would take some time and opportunity. “Yes, John. Several times. I’ve always been erratic and under scrutiny. During my experiments with drugs, especially the phase where I manufactured them myself, I was taken away to save me from myself. Each time I was released I simply found a new way to indulge myself until I decided that paying for street drugs was just effective as and far easier than trying to maintain a secret lab to create them. I wasn’t in any one facility for long.”

 _Nothing worked for long_. Mycroft had Sherlock released as soon as he completed the basic components of his therapy. Now that he wasn’t so focused on his anger at his brother Sherlock saw that perhaps his sibling had merely been doing the best he could to deal with both the messes Sherlock made and the bigger mess the family made by mishandling him. John was scowling fiercely now, “If anything…” the soldier had to breathe deeply for a moment, his dark blue eyes fixed on Sherlock’s, “If someone took you from me _I would come for you Sherlock_ , no matter what I had to do or say to make that happen. You can rely upon it. I give you my word.”

 _John’s word_. Sherlock felt his eyes flutter shut as the warmth inside him grew so hot it felt as if his fingertips should have given off sparks as they stroked over John’s clenched jaw, “I do love you, John, I believe you.”

When Sherlock opened his eyes a moment later he saw that John looked defenceless and almost stunned, “You what?”

“I love you, John. I think I have since the very first moment I saw you, but no matter when it happened, it did indeed happen. I love you.” Sherlock’s words had visibly affected the soldier because John sat almost motionless. “John?”

John’s smile was brighter than the rising sun, “You love me. _Sherlock Holmes_ loves _me_.” He was repeating it like he was trying to convince himself.

“It’s not so difficult to believe is it?” _Surely John understood how Sherlock felt about him?_

“It’s all so fast.” John’s smile remained undimmed.

“Should I have waited before saying anything?” _They were living together and they were going to get married. Certainly, declarations such as this were expected, especially if they were sincere?_

“No love, no, not at all. I just…I didn’t expect…” John was grinning so hard he could hardly speak, “I didn’t expect that _hearing_ it would make me feel quite like this. I’m…wow…I’m really happy right now.”

Sherlock felt that warmth inside begin to spread, “I’m glad of it John.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, “I really, really, love you, in case you haven't noticed yet.”

“I had an inkling.” Sherlock understood John’s reaction. Right now he felt like he was glowing, that he was filled with such light, and he knew it was John that had made it possible for the darkness within him to finally be conquered. Hearing John _say_ the words, even if he knew that the soldier cared deeply for him, was very different. It made everything seem more tangible as if the pronouncement of those syllables somehow gave those feelings form and context. They loved each other, both madmen entirely besotted with one another, perfect together. “We’re here John.”

They were. The doctor hadn’t noticed how the driver had taken them up a stony lane and into a large parking area. The home that Sherlock had grown up in spread out before them, a brick monstrosity that seemed to go on forever in a haphazard ramble that spoke of growth over time, “So how long has your family been in residence?”

“If Uncle Albert is to be believed since the Romans first arrived.” Sherlock could see how it would be believable. Some of the stonework on the interior was definitely ancient, and parts of the basement would make excellent settings for any movie about cave-dwellers. The driver pulled up to the entrance and they disembarked, Anthea stayed inside and they watched as the vehicle merely drove away without them, “I imagine she’ll return when we’re ready to leave.” She’d better. He had no intention of remaining here for longer than dinner.

“Okay sweetheart, I guess we’ll go in then.” John’s back was ramrod straight and his walk shifted from the easy gait he had when they were strolling the streets to something similar he’d done when he was inspecting the flat at the last crime scene. Sherlock’s heart gave a bit of a throb when he understood that John was alert and wary, relaxed but not off guard. He was entering strange territory and his instincts were to assess and protect. Without realising it John stepped ever so slightly in front of Sherlock, just enough that if it were for some reason necessary he would be able to intervene from any incoming attack, “Nice place.”

“It’s horrid. I never enjoyed my time here.” What was there to enjoy except the few things he’d managed to find to distract him, music and science. It had been mostly music since his family hadn’t cared to indulge in his constant experimentation. Sherlock had eventually figured out how to barter for what he needed since he couldn’t buy things outright and had put together a lab hidden in one of the many unused rooms on the lower levels. Sherlock understood now that his long hours of uninterrupted study had occurred because no one ever looked for him. Perhaps they’d not cared, or more likely, they assumed Mycroft knew where he was. Mycroft had. He’d come to Sherlock’s lab more than once and now Sherlock recalled that the microscope had merely appeared one day. He’d wondered briefly before getting lost in a new series of experiments and had never once asked where it had come from. “Mycroft did his best to keep me occupied in a manner I found acceptable.” It had to have been Mycroft.

“I’m sure he did.” John sounded tolerant, “It can’t have been easy. I get the feeling the pair of you didn’t receive a lot of direct parenting.”

“Well no. Mummy kept nannies, then we had tutors when we were old enough not to require constant supervision.”  Mummy and Papa weren’t cruel, just absent. Sherlock had never known anything otherwise from them, and was a bit surprised to find his hand being gripped tightly by his fiancé, “John?”

“You’ll never be alone again, I promise you that sweetheart, I’m always going to be with you even if we’re not together.” John seemed sincere. He’d stopped walking just before they got to the front door and continued to gaze up into Sherlock’s face, “No matter what Sherlock, I’m yours and you are _mine_. No one can take you from me, and I won’t ever give you up. You promised yourself to me and that means a very great deal to me. I told you I’m a possessive man. I am. I told you I would obsess over you and I will. I might smother you with attention sometimes, and you might not like that.”

“Don’t tease John, don’t offer something you won’t actually give.” _John was beautiful and perfect._ The more Sherlock told himself that the more he realised the depth of truth to those words. _John was everything he needed in life, every single thing he’d lived without since he first drew breath_. “Do you promise?”

John’s smile was crooked again, “Yeah, I promise.” He stared up at Sherlock, his dark blue eyes filled with such happiness that Sherlock realised he was smiling back at his lover just as broadly, “You really are some kind of fantasy, I never thought I’d meet anyone as perfect for me as you are.”

“Let’s go inside John, we have to meet the family.” Sherlock was very content with life. He’d never been so happy, so calm, so at peace. He led John inside his family home and to the large dining area where his family waited. He was pleased to see that Lestrade was in attendance and that he was standing close to Mycroft. _They seemed to have reconciled completely._ _Good_. Sherlock led John right up to his parents. Mummy and Papa looked much as they had the last time he’d seen them, silvery and dignified. Mummy wore a heavy brocade gown in red, while Papa wore one of his many dark suits. Sherlock made no attempt to embrace them or show any sort of affection, they didn’t tolerate such demonstrations so all he said was, “May I present my fiancé, Captain John Watson MD, formerly of the 5 th Northumberland Fusiliers. John, may I present…”

Sherlock got no further. Mummy sighed and waved him silent, “It is worse than I thought Sieger.”

Papa shook his head, “Agreed Violet. Well, at least he’s drug-free. That makes it easier.”

“For _whom,_ Sieger? What do we tell the family? He says he’s _engaged!_ ” Sherlock was confused and so was Mycroft. Greg and John exchanged looks and both men shrugged their shoulders, “So disappointing. Still, better now than later. Sherlock, come with me, follow Mummy Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked. _Mummy hadn’t spoken to him like that since he had been a very small child_. “Excuse me?”

Mummy looked impatient, “Sherlock, we’ve been watching you. Mycroft has sent us very detailed reports on your acquaintances. It is obvious to us that you have suffered some kind of mental lapse of judgement. Son, you _do_ realise you are marrying a…prostitute?” Mummy was genteelly disgusted and Papa huffed out an offended breath. Mummy continued to speak as if Sherlock was a small child. “Clearly you have suffered a break of some kind and we are sending you away.”


	11. Being the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with the family isn't turning out quite as expected.

Standing there in the middle of the building he grew up in was already disconcerting, and now Mummy’s words triggered the opening of doors in his mind palace. Memories flooded Sherlock’s brain, hazy disturbing memories of his body aching, his mind being fuzzy and disconnected, of his entire world being hazy and topsy-turvy. He remembered rooms where the lights never went out and needles that hadn’t brought him bliss, and being made to live life _inside_ the observation room, cut off from the entire world, and kept in endless white. Perhaps that’s why he liked the night and dark places so much. Maybe that’s why his natural state was blackness because it was comfortable and safe, but now, _now_ Sherlock knew what true light felt like, and it wasn’t sterile. It was vibrant, made of colours, emotions, it was life. It was love. They wanted to isolate him from his life!

“Taking him away?” John looked sharply at the couple in front of them, “What do you mean?” Mummy and Papa hardly looked at John. If they had they might have witnessed that amazing moment between breaths where John shrugged off his disguise and became a killer once more, “You have one minute to explain because no one is taking Sherlock anywhere, unless it’s _me_ taking him _home_.” The moment of dread that Sherlock had felt when he’d heard his mother speak flittered away as quickly as it had arrived. _John was here and Sherlock wasn’t going to leave without him._ _They’d agreed_. He relaxed and listened, his fingers tightly caught in John’s hand. He was safe.

Mummy didn’t look at John but she answered, “We have made arrangements for treatment. Sherlock needs care. He will be taken someplace safe where…”

A firm voice rang out, “ _No_.” Mycroft stepped forward, and Sherlock felt a jolt of surprise at the fury on his normally impassive brother’s face. “No, you are _not_. Mummy, Papa, you have no right to do this, no right whatever. Sherlock _is_ in his right mind, I suspect he always has been. He has not suffered anything except shock from meeting someone who accepts him fully, something his own parents have _never_ done. No, I will block you with every bit of power at my disposal and it is _considerable_. This is a thing you will not do, not again, not ever again.”

Mummy gave an impatient huff and Papa looked irritated. Sherlock, John, and Greg looked back and forth between them like spectators in the arena, “Son, we _will_ do as we must to protect our family. How do we explain this? He doesn’t understand what _normal_ people should understand. Sherlock’s problems…”

“Were _never_ problems!” his brother interjected sharply, “Sherlock is a _genius_ not _defective_ , though I have long entertained serious doubts about _your_ mental capacity. It seems to me that you have projected your own fears and inadequacies upon my poor brother, and I will not tolerate it any longer.” Mycroft’s voice was ice-cold and unwavering.

Now Papa looked infuriated, “How _dare_ you speak to us this way Mycroft Holmes? Such disrespect! You have no business…”

“Papa, stop. I have _every right_ to intercede. It is I who has spent every spare moment of _my life_ watching over Sherlock, not _you_. It is I who watched as he picked himself up, straightened himself out, and made something of himself. All he needed was time and motivation. Gregory provided Sherlock with something you never tried to give him, _purpose_. John is giving Sherlock something neither of you ever seemed to realise he even needed, _a counterpart_. Sherlock _is_ going to marry John Watson, they _are_ going to see their lives lived as they see fit, and _that_ is _all_ there is to it.”

Papa snorted contemptuously, “What makes you think you can do…”

Mycroft cut Papa off again, “When you forced me to assume control of the family because it was _politically_ advantageous I made certain changes. Since I was unwillingly compelled to bear the burden I chose my own reward. If you cross me I guarantee that not only will Sherlock _never_ again see the inside of one of those dreadful institutions that you tried to break him in, but that the pair of you will end up _in care_ at the meanest, least hospitable situation I can locate, and I assure you further that the orderlies I will hire to keep you will be very, very firm about seeing _my_ rules obeyed. I am very sorry it has come to this. If I had realised sooner that you planned to entrap my brother yet again, I never would have reminded him to come to dinner, a meal at which I am certain in his endless innocence Sherlock had no idea his own parents planned to betray him…again.”

Sherlock couldn’t speak. Mycroft was correct. Though he’d tried to joke with John about it, he had never once actually _expected_ the interventions to happen, not any of the times they had occurred. Perhaps it had been Mummy and Papa’s calm assurance that it was so very necessary that made him capitulate time and time again, his own weakness and need for attention enough of a pressure point for them to manipulate him over and over. Drugs had been part of what they’d been ashamed of but then again, Sherlock had never been the favoured child. He’d been their back-room embarrassment, their ongoing disappointment. Sherlock realised now it was the very reason he balked so hard at being manipulated elsewhere in his life. He was helpless to disobey his parents but he _could_ resist nearly anyone else, anyone that wasn’t John at least.

Greg was scowling and Sherlock realised that John was right in front of him now, but the soldier’s hand had not left his. If anything John’s grip was almost painfully tight, as if he were afraid someone would rip Sherlock from him right then and there. Mummy looked aghast, “You are _threatening_ us?”

Mycroft looked stern, “Yes Mummy. I am. When I was but a child you charged me with Sherlock’s care. What I have learned throughout his life was that you and Papa were the worst thing to happen to him. It was bad enough that you ignored him so entirely, but to allow him to believe he was _mad_ , to encourage him to believe that he was _damaged as a person_ …your lack of nurturing has had its impact on us both, but sadly for you, my emotionally stunted state merely left me more than capable of becoming the most powerful, most heartless, and most _effective_ behind-the-scenes power in government. Do not test me, Mummy! Not about Sherlock, not ever again. If you indulge in your repeated impulse to simply lock him away instead of trying to help him, then I further promise that I will allow you to learn empathy by returning that favour instantly.”

Sherlock was looking at his brother in silent amazement. The few concessions he’d just made had clearly been merely the beginning of the mental readjustment he’d need to undertake. He’d seriously misunderstood Mycroft’s protectiveness! _He wasn’t just keeping Sherlock from doing himself harm, he’d been keeping their parents at bay_! John spoke up, “So, what’s for dinner?”

Mummy was completely horrified and stared at John as if he’d crawled straight out of the sewers. Ignoring his question she wrung her hands and went back to speaking only to Mycroft, “What about _the prostitute?_ How can you allow this Mycroft? Think of the family! Sherlock has spent thousands of pounds already. This opportunist will drain our coffers dry. How long before he’s gotten our son addicted again to control him? Who knows what someone with a medical licence has access to? They could be drugged right now, we can’t know! It’s obvious to anyone that he’s using Sherlock for money! Be rational Mycroft, what other reason could anyone have for wanting to be with _Sherlock_?”

Strangely her words did not hurt the way they might of. Perhaps it was because of how John’s thumb stroked gently over his though their fingers remained tightly tangled together. Mycroft clearly had to steel himself before answering, “Doctor Watson earned a living by being a _dancer_ , which is an entirely different occupation than…what you believe. I’ve explained that to you more than once but yet again your all-encompassing prejudices compel you to lump everyone who isn’t of your society under the heading _the lower classes_. Sherlock has never viewed people as you do, he deals honestly with all he meets as best he can, and _Doctor_ Watson is possibly the best thing to ever have happened to your youngest son. Sherlock’s expenditures have all been in regards to his home, and even if they hadn’t you have no right whatever to pry into his financial affairs. I oversee the family Trust, not you. Even if I were still signing off for him on his accounts I would have approved all of Sherlock’s financial choices. There is no reason to deny him perfectly reasonable requests like _linens_ and _cookware_. Sherlock is making a _home_ for the person who makes him feel right about himself. There is nothing wrong with that. For once in his life, he is simply happy. Just look at him!”

Now everyone stared at Sherlock who was mildly discomfited by the sudden focusing of attention on his person. John’s grip became a little less fierce but no less reassuring, “Excuse me?” he said again. His mind was whirling in a thousand directions as a billion minute adjustments were made in his mind palace. Everything he’d perceived as a child and youth about his brother and parents had been dreadfully skewed. Now that he had the correct information an endless cascade of cause and effect grew clear. It was taking a few moments for everything to process and re-set.

Mycroft’s voice gentled, “Your youngest child is everything you cannot understand. He is broad-minded, curious, fearless, he is eager to know _more_ not _less_. You and everyone you know spend your lives making sure the walls between yourselves and everyone you feel is _inferior_ to you are kept strong. You are disinterested in furthering yourselves beyond the shallow interests you foster. Sherlock has no desire to live that way, but he is not _mad_ for wanting those differences! You hire people like me to ensure those walls remain, and that the lower classes you so abhor remain in the distance where they cannot trouble you. Hear me. Threaten Sherlock or John just once, and I will tear those walls away and throw you to the masses.”

“I’m a bloody _good_ dancer!” complained John to no one in particular. It was clear that Mummy and Papa wanted to ignore him but their eyes were drawn back to the small man almost against their will, “Sherlock didn’t even know he liked that sort of thing and see what happened? _That’s_ how good I am. As for prostitution I only tried it once, and it wasn’t even _proper_ prostitution, but it didn’t work out the way I planned at all.” John was deliberately keeping the fact that it was their youngest son he tried with to himself.

Sherlock really tried not to giggle and managed to keep it soundless but he still laughed. Mycroft’s eyes closed for a second and a muscle twitched in his jaw but he refused to look at either of them, keeping his attention on his parents, both of whom still looked shocked and slightly ill.

Greg stepped up, “Well I understand a bit more about Mycroft’s issues now _that’s_ for certain. I can’t believe you don’t know this but Sherlock is one of the most gifted detectives I’ve ever come across, and he’s so talented there isn’t anyone in London qualified enough to keep up with him. I watched with my own eyes as John Watson stepped right up and worked with your son like they were made for each other. I don’t know who the pair of you think you are but forcibly detaining someone against their will is against the law, and I’m seriously considering taking you both in for uttering threats.”

Mummy and Papa both recoiled in fresh horror, “You wouldn’t dare! You have no authority. The facility isn’t even in England.”

Lestrade scowled at them. “Actually I do. In fact, I’m practically obligated to exert it. If it weren’t for the fallout Myc would have to deal with I’d be calling my people in right now. Attempted kidnapping is a serious charge. I have a good mind to inspect the manor to see if the charge of attempted entrapment will hold. If I find anyone in medical scrubs standing near a transport vehicle, there will be trouble. From where I’m standing you meet all the requirements to be fully indictable. Not only can I arrest you for attempted kidnapping, I can probably work a charge of human trafficking in there as well. We’ll see who shames your family more, the two of you, or Sherlock.”

Mummy and Papa were entirely taken aback all over again. John just stood there, “So, dinner is still on right? I wouldn’t ask except we only had a few steamed buns at lunch and I’m starving. I get a bit difficult if I’m hungry for too long.”

“Pardon me?” Papa could barely look at John. His eyes flickered toward the smaller man, “I don’t believe you understand the gravity of the situation.”

“I don’t mean to be rude since you’re going to be my father-in-law, but I think I _do_ know what’s going on. You invited your baby boy home so you could throw him in a box somewhere to hide him from view. I’m rather against that idea, but since Mycroft and Greg have stepped up so nicely I don’t have to do anything about it.” John was smiling with his mouth and face but his eyes refused to join in. “You’ve made a lot of judgement calls about us and you didn’t even have the decency or common sense to check things out personally, you just got your bespoke knickers in a bunch and lashed out with the first weapon that came to hand, didn’t you? Foolish, very foolish. I would have dug a bit deeper before revealing my plans. I would have waited until after dinner maybe, asked Sherlock off for a bit of a chat, and _then_ grabbed him, but I guess hubris is on my side, and it's a good thing too. I don’t really like the idea of kicking seniors around but let me make you some promises, alright?” John tugged at Sherlock until they were standing side by side, “I promise to care for Sherlock for all of his days, I’ll watch out for him every way I know how. I also promise to deliver absolute hell to his enemies, and anyone who troubles him, and right now that includes _you_ , just a heads up there, and I promise that I won’t hesitate to exploit every single weakness you might have in any area whatever because, as I’ve noted to others, I can be a spiteful shit, _and you have no fucking idea who I am and what I’m willing to do_.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but think of Donovan and her ongoing problems thanks to merely annoying John. His heart thumped hard in his chest once more, and he felt humble in the face of John’s carefully contained wrath, a fury that was hidden inside a small plain package that now stood glaring up at two people who had controlled Sherlock’s life for so long. Papa looked appalled that John was addressing him directly but drew himself up rigidly, “We have been in touch with your superiors. I assure you Mr Watson, whatever rank you might have held can be stripped from you with the right calls _and we have already made them_.”

John sounded mild again, “Oi, that’s a little low, I worked hard to earn my Captaincy. Well, if I’ve got nothing to lose I guess I can kick your arse right now.” John took a single small step forward, and even Sherlock enjoyed how Mummy and Papa shrank back, “Still, I don’t know. Greg is right here. Even he couldn’t turn a blind eye to me kicking around two old people. I’ll settle for dinner instead. You _were_ planning to eat weren’t you, or was this all a huge ruse to get Sherlock here? I know…” John pulled out his mobile. Sherlock distantly noted that Lestrade was eyeing the device as much as he was. It was as if John had pulled a live serpent out of his pocket. Mycroft hadn’t been there the last time John had made the same gesture.

“Now Watson,” Lestrade sounded anxious, “Maybe we can think about this.”

“S’alright Greg, I’m just hungry. By the way, you gave me your contact list when we were drunk last night.” John’s call connected, “Anthea? It’s John Watson. Look, Mycroft is busy right now but we need you to find some Chinese takeaway, enough for six, get some for yourself and the driver as well. You can eat in the driveway, we’re leaving right after dinner.” John held the mobile away, “Who wants what?” Silence reigned as everyone stared at John who shrugged, “Get an assortment of whatever, especially things that we can dip into sauce, Sherlock likes those. Help an old soldier out, I’m trying to impress Sherlock’s parents. We’re all having a bit of a moment here.” He ended the call and smiled all around, “Sorted.”

Mummy was horrified in an all new manner, “Takeaway? We have never _once_ ordered in…”

“No, you probably import chefs every day so you can have something you feel is authentic.” retorted John, “Kind of rude of you to invite everyone to dinner and then _not_ provide dinner. Did you eat already? I thought we were meeting the family tonight.”

“As did I.” Mycroft still looked cold and wary, “Gregory was expecting as much.” Mummy and Papa grew stiff and expressionless, “Ah, I see. You had no intention of approving of Gregory either.”

“I bet they thought you were just a bit of rough until I showed up!” whispered John dramatically, winking at Greg, “I’m making you look like the _good_ son-in-law. You’re welcome.”

“We’re not engaged.” Greg looked perturbed. Sherlock felt another laugh trying to escape and bravely he fought it back. _John was so precious in so many ways, he shone so brightly he lit up the lives of anyone he cared for, even a bit_.

Mycroft turned and took the DI’s hand, “No, we are not.” Ignoring the distressed squeak Mummy gave Mycroft lifted Greg’s hand to his chest, “I had hoped to ask in a slightly more romantic atmosphere.”

Greg was smiling, “More romantic than how you first asked me out?”

“You were bleeding from a knife wound, I was trying to distract you from the pain.” Mycroft smiled gently.

Greg was still smiling back. “It worked.”

“Sherlock proposed on the street. I didn’t mind,” remarked John helpfully.

“We forbid this!” Papa sounded furious, “ _Sherlock_ marrying someone inappropriate is bad enough but you, Mycroft? You shall not!”

Sherlock was pleased to see that Mycroft was every bit as capable of tuning out their parents as they were at ignoring things they didn’t like. “I can’t risk letting John get away. I had to propose as soon as possible.”

“I understand brother, I feel the same of Gregory.” Mycroft and Greg now obviously were in a world all of their own, “For years we have grown together, you and I, our paths inextricably intertwined. You have taught me so much about being a person, about how to care, how to trust, and how to let go of things I could not let loose without your endless kindness and faith, not only in me but in Sherlock. I beg for the chance to spend the rest of my years with you, to be allowed to love and honour you the way you deserve, to share everything we can as we forge our way through all the problems we deal with because of who we are. Gregory Lestrade, I most humbly ask for your hand in marriage knowing full well that you are far out of my league, well above me both in integrity as well as honour, and a better person that I can ever hope to be, but nonetheless, I ask it. Will you marry me?”

“You little devil, you,” Sherlock noted that Greg did not answer with words but instead kissed Mycroft robustly, and allowed his elder brother to slip a heavy gold ring onto his finger. “Why ask now?”

“I confess to being convinced that you would reject me. You have every reason to. I’m a terrible boyfriend. You could do so much better than someone who is absent so often. Perhaps my little brother gave me the courage to reach out and ask at long last, I have had this ring for nearly a year now.”

John was watching Mummy sobbing onto Papa’s shoulder, “How have we failed so completely?” she cried, “Where did we go wrong?”

“Don’t ask me, I wasn’t there.” John turned around to kiss Sherlock, “I liked your proposal better, right to the point.”

“You are the man of letters John, I have no skill at being romantic. I’ll have to work on that.” Sherlock took a leaf from his brother’s book and ignored their parents. Mummy was wailing quite loudly now but he distracted himself by enjoying a kiss with John since Mycroft and Greg were similarly preoccupied.

“She just needs a bite to eat, she’s over-excited.” John looked toward the grieving Holmes parents then shrugged, “Hopefully Anthea found someplace nearby to get some food from. They are going to do themselves harm by carrying on this way.”

“Anthea is very resourceful, I’m sure she’ll find something appropriate.” They left Mummy and Papa standing in their empty receiving room. With Greg and Mycroft they walked through the manor as Lestrade wanted to do, and sure enough, they found a small party of orderlies waiting at the servant’s entrance at the back of the house, “Hello gents.” John’s smile was as gentle as his eyes were hard. “Your services won’t be needed tonight.”

“Mrs Holmes said…” began one of them cautiously.

“Mrs Holmes is narrowly escaping being detained for attempted kidnapping. I am here to ascertain the facts. Are you the person or persons who have been contracted to illegally transport a citizen of England out of the country, thereby committing an indictable crime, and therefore eligible for me to break their heads before I arrest them?” Lestrade was grim and never had Sherlock seen him appear more official.

“Er…no? We were asked to come pick up a package, but as we can all see, there’s no package here so we’ll be on our way.” Nervously all of them backed out of the room until they were out of the house completely. Despite their attempts to get away as anonymously as possible Lestrade got all their information, and after that John snapped off a quick picture of the entire group and sent it off to whomever it was that watched over him in the ether.

“Sherlock I am sorry. I should have anticipated something like this.” Mycroft wasn’t looking at his brother. He was watching the medical transport drive away. His mobile was in his hand and he was reading messages, “Our parents won’t trouble you like this again, I promise.”

There was nothing else to say, “Thank you, brother.” Sherlock felt strangely disconnected from what had just happened. If John had not been holding his hand he felt as if he might float away. “I’m not quite sure how to deal with what I now know.”

Mycroft sighed and Sherlock watched as Greg came up behind his brother to hold him. Mycroft seemed to deflate suddenly, turning to hide his face against Lestrade’s shoulder, and Greg angled their bodies away to give his lover a smidgen more privacy to recover from his upset. “I told you he cared Sherlock, I know you didn’t understand but you do now.”

“Yes Greg, I understand.” Sherlock did. Mycroft was as challenged as he was when it came to understanding affection but nonetheless had managed to figure out how to best care for his little brother and fend off the cold decisions their parents had made regarding their mutual well-being. How much stress had Mycroft had to deal with in his life? His perpetually pinched expression and thinning hair were likely results of the unending strain he was under. Sherlock decided to try a bit harder as well, “I will be better Mycroft. You won’t have to worry.”

“It’s a difficult habit to surrender, it will take me some time.” Mycroft let a shallow sigh escape him when Greg rested his broad hands on his shoulders, “I’m sure you and John will be fine.”

“You’ll be fine too, babe, Sherlock’s not leaving the city or anything, he’s still at Baker Street, and John will be there to make sure he’s not getting into trouble alone.”

“You can live your life Mycroft, John will help me now.” Sherlock didn’t like the fact that his brother had been obligated for so long. For so many years he’d resented Mycroft, and suddenly he was being forced to realise that his brother had only done his best under very trying circumstances, “You can even keep watch on the street in front of the flat.” It was a compromise.

“Yeah, the street is okay, but not inside, alright?” John was so good. He understood how Sherlock was awkwardly trying to mend fences.

“I will see that whatever damage my parents did to your military reputation is undone.” promised the taller man, still not looking at the pair, “It might take a bit of time depending on what they’ve said and to whom.”

John’s voice was almost deceptively light, “Well, I imagine it’s not even a problem. I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“Oh?” now Sherlock was keenly interested in John’s answer, “Why is that, my love?”

“We can talk about it later, my angel, when we’re alone.” _Oh, secrets_. Sherlock realised it probably had something to do with John’s military past and the many people who had life-debts with the good doctor. Pleased that his lover was going to share he was content to wait until later to learn more.

“Very well, my dearest.” There was no point hiding his affection for his lover. Mycroft and Greg were already aware, and Mummy and Papa would disapprove even if Sherlock was discrete, so really there was no rationale, therefore he didn’t bother, “I don’t mind.”

“Patience is good.” John gave him a quick wink and Sherlock felt himself flush the tiniest bit. _That one word now meant so much more than just being able to wait a bit longer._

“Anthea has returned.” Mycroft was tucking his mobile away, “This should be interesting.”

“Thank goodness, I am dying of hunger!” announced John dramatically, “I wasn’t going to last much longer. Let’s go, sweetheart, I need to eat.”

“Yes my love, of course.” _John was hungry_. Sherlock strode off with determination. _The food was waiting and so was John._ He kept his pace in line with the brisk walk that John managed, proud of his soldier and desirous of the opportunity to take care of him further.

They made their way to a large dining room where Anthea and the driver were just carrying in two medium sized boxes filled with takeaway containers. Without prompting the PA set the brightly decorated containers out, laying down paper serviettes, and disposable chopsticks in six different settings before leaving the small group alone. John gallantly seated Sherlock and with a sassy wink, Lestrade did the same for Mycroft. Stiffly Mummy and Papa seated themselves and stared woodenly at their empty paper plates. Mummy’s eyes were red, and Papa’s face looked strained, “Egg rolls?” offered John solicitously, “Dry garlic spareribs? You can eat them with your hands if you can’t manage the chopsticks.” When they failed to answer John just stood up and set to dishing everyone out a bit of everything Anthea had procured, “I’m hungry so I’m feeding you.” he reported. “It’s just a thing I do.”

“He’s very nurturing.” Sherlock was fondly gazing at his fiancé who was ignoring how he was being ignored.

Greg piped up, taking his cue from John and also ignoring the fact that they were being ignored, “He’s great at cooking too, Myc missed an amazing meal last night, John did the whole thing from scratch  _and_ he baked a cake. Sherlock did the decorating, but John certainly knows his way around the kitchen.”

“Gregory assures me that I was there in spirit. I’m sure it was enjoyable.” Mycroft was mild sounding, but Sherlock noted how quickly Lestrade discretely reassured his lover that all was forgiven and that they were okay by reaching under the table to pat Mycroft’s leg quickly. “Thank you, John.”

John liberally filled Mycroft’s plate to near overflowing. He did the same to Mummy and Papa too, not asking what they wanted, just evenly portioning everything out. “Dig in!” he ordered cheerily, “Sweetheart, do you want anything else?”

“Some tea would be nice,” Sherlock said politely. John handed him a takeaway cup from the tray that Anthea had thoughtfully provided, “Thank you, John.”

Mummy and Papa just sat there, not even attempting to taste their food. Mycroft silently broke his new chopsticks apart and began his meal. Lestrade and John dug in without hesitation and ate heartily. Sherlock sighed and picked out only the things he liked, nudging the things he didn’t like onto the side of his plate closest to John who began to eat off of it every other bite. “Our first meal was Chinese,” reported John to no one in particular again, “Sherlock asked me out after we caught a criminal.”

“They wrapped that case up in a single night.” confirmed Lestrade who passed Mycroft a packet of sauce, “Even with the evidence we had it would have taken the division days to make the same collar. Sherlock’s got a way of thinking though, he really knows how to sort things out.” Neither man was addressing either of the Holmes parents directly but Sherlock noted how Mummy shuddered delicately.

“Sherlock also managed to red-flag an international drug-smuggling ring.” bragged John proudly, “He can’t work the case of course, but now someone can, and that’s amazing.”

“Of course he did,” said Papa dismissively. “Sherlock has a talent for finding drugs.”

John’s expression lost all merriment, “Actually what he did was discover that a woman and her wee babe were forcibly involved in the matter, and _both_ your sons managed to secure her _and_ the little one so they’re safe. No actual drugs involved. You should be proud.”

Mummy looked affronted, “Proud of our youngest child for preferring criminals and low-lives over _proper_ company and respectable work?”

“Respectable work? What’s that then?” demanded John, “What, living in your posh mansion part of the year while you roam around with other people with their noses so far up in the air you’re all in danger of drowning when it rains? I did two decades in the Army, I’ve watched a lot of people both good and bad live, die, or disappear. What have you done?”

Papa was offended, “We are on the board for many noteworthy charities. We invest heavily in the arts! _You_ were a common soldier, and not even that any longer! Enjoy your memories, Mr Watson. That’s all you have remaining of your days in the military.”

“About that,” said John with a bit of a smile, “You seriously called someone to strip me of my rank?”

“It is done,” replied Papa with a sneer, finally condescending enough to eat a fragment of carrot from his plate. Mummy touched nothing. “Your record has been expunged.”

“Oh dear.” said John, not seeming upset at all, “Whatever will I do?”

“I imagine living off of our son will occupy you.” Mummy was tart, and she still refused to look at John. “Since our best efforts to prevent this tragedy have failed.”

“Well don’t let it get you down, you gave it your best shot.” John didn’t seem very put out and Sherlock began to wonder about that. “Fortune cookie?” He handed one out to everyone but tucked his into his pocket along with Sherlock’s. “We’ll have those later.” He stood up, “Dinner was lovely, thanks for the invitation. Next time the pair of you can pop round to ours. I’ll put something nice together.”

Sherlock stood and took John’s hand, “It was very pleasant seeing you both. I’m glad you’re still in good health.” He said politely, “Mycroft, Lestrade, you can ride back to town with us if you wish.”

Mycroft stood and looked down at his parents who still refused to see either of their sons, “That would be very agreeable, brother. Gregory? Are you ready?”

“Past done, let’s get going, long drive in front of us.” Without another word, John and Greg escorted Sherlock and Mycroft from the family manor and into the car that waited for them. The drive back to London was long and filled with thoughtful silence. Both Holmes brothers required the voiceless comfort of their lovers, comfort that was eagerly and gratefully given as heads lay on shoulders, and arms squeezed tenderly. It had been a long and draining day and by the time they were outside their door on Baker Street Sherlock was so tired he was almost asleep on his feet. John continued to say not a word, simply leading him inside and locking the door firmly behind them. They were home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MyFirstistheFourth did the best they could being my unintentional beta for this chapter. All mistakes and weirdnesses are mine.


	12. Transport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is teaching Sherlock so much, and each new thing is welcome.

 

The first thing they did, exhausted or not, was to check on Mrs Hudson. She took one look at their smiling but tired faces and made them come inside for hot tea and a biscuit, “You’ll rest better for a bit of something home-made in your tum.” She fussed in a motherly way, wiping down the spotless table, spooning extra sugar into Sherlock’s tea, and making sure John had extra biscuits at hand, “Tell me about your night, was it pleasant?”

“It was fantastic.” chirped John, “Real spitfires they are. If he takes after his parents then I’m happy to know that Sherlock will still be a handful even when we’re on in years.”

“Mummy and Papa tried to have me sectioned again, and Lestrade wasn’t allowed to meet the family.” reported Sherlock, “They also called someone to remove John’s military record. There was no dinner.”

John immediately protested, “Well that’s not entirely true! Anthea picked up Chinese after Mycroft and Greg threw their weight around, and then we chased off this van full of men that were waiting to take Sherlock to a crazy-house somewhere abroad.” The soldier ate a biscuit noisily and kept talking, “Mycroft proposed. Mrs Holmes cried. It was really sweet.”

“Oh, my.” Mrs Hudson’s hands were on her cheeks in amazement, “Mycroft is getting _married?_ ” Mrs Hudson was a treasure just like John was. Anyone else would have questioned their story, or been shocked and uncomfortable, “Are they planning to move in together before that, or is it too early for house-warming presents?”

Gamely Sherlock forged forward in his new life, “I am unsure Mrs Hudson, we can ask Mycroft around for tea sometime soon, and then we can find out.”

She noticed his change of attitude immediately and with a pleased smile she patted his arm, “I’m sure he’ll be very grateful to be able to share this experience with you Sherlock, what with both of you getting married.” She wouldn’t keep them any longer, “I had my herbal soother before you came home. I need to rest now, I’m not a young woman anymore.”

John winked saucily at her, “I bet that’s not what your date last night thought.” With a small blush and a whack of her tea towel, Mrs Hudson chased them out of her flat while John and Sherlock giggled like children. Much heartened they climbed the stairs and went the rest of the way home. As soon as the door was bolted behind them John caught Sherlock up in his arms and gave him a long and very tender kiss, “I love you.” he whispered softly, “I love you with my whole heart.”

He was going to burst with the happiness he felt. It was so strange, he’d felt nothing but emptiness for so long but then, he’d been waiting hadn’t he? Waiting for exactly the right person to come along and he had, “My beautiful John.” Sherlock returned the kiss, making it linger until it grew torrid. Sherlock found that he needed this, he needed the affection and desire John felt for him, needed to know he was wanted, adored, cared for, and loved.

“Let’s wash up.” John continued to be tender. Gently he took Sherlock’s hand and led him to their bedroom where they undressed. John wrapped Sherlock in his robe and brought him to the shower where they cleaned up. The hot water was soothing, but not as soothing as the endless embraces and other marks of affection that John offered. When they were scrubbed from head to toe John led him out, dried him off, and brought him to bed, “Cuddle up my angel.”

Eagerly Sherlock did so. He could barely keep his eyes open now. He lay his head on John’s chest and didn’t hesitate to capture his soldier in an encompassing embrace. John chuckled softly and began to rub his hand up and down Sherlock’s back and shoulder, “I love you, John.” A kiss was pressed onto his damp curls as John hugged him tightly for a moment.

“Sleep sweetheart.” John kissed his hair again, his fingers swirling over Sherlock’s temples soothingly, “Rest.” Sherlock did. His eyes slid shut and stayed that way, and effortlessly he fell into a peaceful sleep knowing he was perfectly safe and deeply cared for. John was here.

He woke slowly the next morning. Sherlock discovered he was nearly lying face down on John, his face pressed to the soldier’s neck, their chests pressed together. Smiling sleepily Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s chest, and then another one to John’s throat. He felt his soldier rumbling beneath him and then gentle hands were rubbing his sides and his hips. Eyes barely open Sherlock kissed John’s mouth and loved the soft surprised sound that he made, and the way John’s arms came up to hold him tightly. Sherlock’s heart felt so full, he felt like he was made of love and light, and it was all because of the small man beneath him, “My love.” He breathed the words out onto John’s skin, willing them to sink in and become a part of his flesh, to become etched into the very molecules of John’s being, “My John.”

“I keep thinking this is a dream.” John’s voice was soft and rough with sleep, but he sounded happy, “My fantasy man, my sweet angel.” Sherlock found himself on his back, a giggle escaping him as John grinned down, “Morning.”

“Good morning John.” Sherlock gazed up at his lover and hoped John could see how he felt just then. John could. Sherlock witnessed another marvellous stream of expressions cross his face. John was surprised, pleased, amazed, and then Sherlock saw gratitude as well as love, “I do love you, John, very much.”

“I…I see that you do.” John kissed him softly, “I know it.” He sounded as amazed as he looked, “I love you too Sherlock, I can’t even express how much. I can’t describe it. I’ve never felt like this before.”

That pleased Sherlock greatly. He wanted that, for these feelings to be for them alone, for John to experience something with _him_ that the soldier had experienced with no other. He felt good when he was with John, he felt like he belonged, and he felt how they fit together, how they were meant for one another.

John kissed him soundly and then to Sherlock’s utter surprise John _tickled_ him. Deft fingers poked under his arms and along his ribs, danced across his belly, and onto his hips. Shouting and twisting away as best he was able Sherlock worked his hardest to escape but John had him caught in the duvet and did not stop until Sherlock was nearly sick with laughing. Finally, he yelled, “I need the loo!” and John stopped instantly, a roguish grin on his face, “John!” protested Sherlock as he was released and helped up. Little giggles kept escaping.

“You’ve got the loveliest laugh. You don’t laugh nearly enough,” stated John who helped Sherlock into his robe and escorted him to the bathroom. While he was in there Sherlock thought about John’s comment. His soldier was right, he didn’t laugh very often. It would be fair to say that he’d done most of his laughing in the short time he’d been acquainted with his fiancé. John made him feel happy, and happiness wasn’t a feeling Sherlock was terribly familiar with. With fresh determination, Sherlock vowed to himself to ensure John’s own happiness in any way he could manage, “Hurry up sweetheart, my turn!”

As soon as he was washed Sherlock let John in and went to the kitchen. Staring around he decided he could at least fill the kettle and get tea going. John enjoyed cooking but Sherlock could at least help a bit by getting the water going. He didn’t want to infringe on John’s demesne and at the same time, he wanted to participate. When John came back out the soldier was smiling, and with a teasing laugh encouraged Sherlock to help him make pancakes, watching as the young scientist measured all the ingredients out with precision, following the recipe exactly, “We need a proper baseline if you plan on experimenting with the ingredients in the future,” explained Sherlock fussily, “You like to sample different flavors, and textures, we need to track the variables to minimize problems if we need to reverse-engineer something.”

“What, you have a favourite pancake and you want me to learn how to make it?” John was grinning and Sherlock had to kiss him ardently because that’s _exactly_ what he’d meant.

“We had a cook when I was only five, and she made the best pancakes I can remember. I’ve never found anyone who makes them quite like she did, and…”

“Say no more love, challenge accepted. _Project Pancake_ , stage one, commences now.” John pulled out his new laptop and got Sherlock to set up a database to track ingredients and quantities. Carefully Sherlock took note of the type of pan John used, as well as the bowl he mixed the batter in, and the kitchen tools he used to do the stirring, “What, my whisk makes a difference?”

“It might. Perhaps Cook used a mixer or only a wooden spoon. Aerating the batter might have an impact on its overall presentation and quality. We will begin with this recipe, and from there I can explain the differences between what we are eating now, and what I remember eating then, and you can extrapolate the required changes from there.”

“So thicker, stir it faster, use one more egg, that kind of thing?” John was smiling and working, carefully angling his body so Sherlock could view his work and take appropriate notes. “Next time we go back to see your parents we can chat up the kitchen staff, and see if there’s a recipe book or something we can get a copy of.”

 _John was brilliant. Surely someone at the manor kept such details, his parents were very fussy, they’d want exactly what they wanted and nothing different_. Guiltily he realised he was the same way. Sitting up straight Sherlock made another silent vow. _If John made it he would eat it, no matter what it was, even if it was Brussels sprouts, and he hated those no matter how they were prepared_. “Very well John.”

“We can still do _Project Pancake_ though, I mean, I’m not rushing back for another evening like that. I’d rather stay in with you.”

“Unless there’s a case.”

“Well that just goes without saying sweetheart, seriously, that’s not even a question.” Strangely for the first time, Sherlock wasn’t hoping for a case. He wasn’t scouring the papers, or harassing the MET, or texting Lestrade every hour. He was content, completely distracted, and very happy. It truly didn’t matter where they were or what they were doing, as long as John was with him, it was good. John was wonderful and amusing, and he catered to Sherlock’s every whim and doing so delighted them both. John really did love to dote, and witnessing Sherlock nearly glowing from his attentions made the soldier even more tender and loving. Sherlock was surprised over and over again at how giving John was, how effortless it all was, and how hungry he himself was for more. He’d never get enough of John, not ever.

Breakfast was more entertaining than any meal had ever been, with John making much of each bite, analysing each mouthful in a joking yet serious manner, inducing one soft laugh after another out of Sherlock. The pancakes were delicious to taste as they were to smell but not quite what he had stored in his mind palace, “Well, it’s just the first batch. We’ll make a regular thing of this so we can try it all sorts of ways.” John wanted to go for a walk after he cleaned up, and indulgently Sherlock agreed. He had no reason not to, and eagerly told John everything he could ever need to know about the area they lived in. John listened raptly to every word, asking questions, and making sounds of amazement as Sherlock added layer upon layer of information to the conversation, “You’re incredible love, just incredible.” They were walking down a dank alley. Bins lined one side, and bits of litter blew around thanks to a crossway breeze. The soldier reached up and ran a fingertip over Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock was surprised by the intensity of sensation he perceived with that simple gesture, barely a second of contact yet his mouth had begun to water and his flesh tingled everywhere John touched. “The _things_ you know.”

Sherlock had to swallow hard. His transport was making demands and he had no interest in denying it. Leaning down he kissed John. With something akin to a growl John suddenly walked Sherlock backwards and pushed him up against the brick of the building behind them, one hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck to pull his head down to keep kissing him, his other hand roaming over Sherlock’s backside, rubbing and squeezing. Their kiss deepened, and Sherlock felt that magnificent heat ignite once more. John’s legs were between his, keeping his thighs spread a bit and both men gasped when John deliberately rocked upward, brushing their groins together. Desire raged through him, “Take me home John.”

“Time for another lesson.” agreed his lover, “Well past time.” They almost ran home, both men walking as quickly as they could, their hands stuffed deep into their coat pockets, both knowing full well that any further touching would result in the extreme delay in getting to their bed, and neither man had the patience for that. “Get ready Sherlock.” John nudged him toward the loo and Sherlock’s face flamed up because it was his turn to understand immediately. _This was it. This was the day_.

He managed to use the facilities and immediately afterwards stepped into the shower. He both wanted John to join him and at the same time he felt shy and knew he needed this time alone to prepare. They’d had sex already but _this_ wasn’t going to be like _that_. Sherlock was half-hard already, anxious, and eager. As soon as he was done he wrapped himself tightly in the robe he found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. John was standing in the hallway and his smile was wide and loving, “I won’t be long.” he promised.

Sherlock went to their bedroom. John had already drawn back the duvet and Sherlock’s face heated up when he saw that John had made _other_ preparations. He’d lain a large towel down, and set aside a collection of things on the nightstand; damp flannels, a bottle of personal lubricant, and to Sherlock’s surprise, a strip of condoms. Frowning he took them away and set them on the bureau. It might have been John’s effort to be considerate but he would have _all_ of John today and refused to be denied anything.

He heard the shower go on and run briefly. He made his decision, shed his robe once again and returned to the lavatory. John was still in the cubicle, sunshine was streaming in through the window and Sherlock saw that John took in the brightness and shone it back again. “A conductor of light.” He spoke aloud, his voice filled with wonder once more. It was so obvious now. John may have been made of darker stuff but all that did was enable him to do what he was best at. He made things brighter.

“Hey, sweetheart.” John was smiling, and happily, Sherlock joined his lover under the water. John had a handful of foam and with a laugh, Sherlock helped him smear it over his stubble and took up John’s straight-razor himself. John didn’t flinch even for a moment as Sherlock took the blade to him, cautiously scraping away the growth in careful passes. When he was done Sherlock helped John rinse off before trailing a series of kisses over the soldier’s cheeks and throat, ostensibly searching for stray hairs that might have escaped. There were none. He made very certain of that. John made a show of shaving Sherlock in return but in truth, Sherlock’s facial hair didn’t grow very fast, certainly not as fast as John’s. His soldier needed a shave every single day but Sherlock did not. Regardless of the facts, it was caring and intimate, and they still managed to kiss quite often.

Sherlock loved the feel of John’s body beneath his hands and against his own flesh. He loved the hardness of John’s muscles, the delicacy of his skin, the roughness of his hair, and the smell of him. He loved the soft look in John’s eye as he dried the soldier off after, and he loved the gentle laugh they shared as they slowly kissed their way back to their bedroom.

John was ardent and so gentle. Kissing Sherlock’s mouth often, the soldier ran his clever hands all over Sherlock’s body. He felt so warm as if each touch was lingering, lighting little fires beneath his skin, causing him to grow more sensitive, tiny pleasurable jolts electrifying him until he was nearly writhing beneath his lover, and moaning softly. “Turn onto your stomach, my love.” Sherlock didn’t hesitate. Twisting around, he spread his knees and automatically presented himself. There was a moment of silence and then John exhaled raggedly, “I can’t wait to hear you.”

 _John!_ Sherlock was incapable of speaking. He felt weak-limbed once again, but at the same time, he was filled with strange energy, as if he were coiled up tight, ready to spring free at the slightest wrong move. Instead, he kept still as John shuffled up close behind him on his knees, reached out, and laid his hands on Sherlock’s hips, “Please.” He sighed, his body tense and waiting, “Please John.”

John shushed him, “No need to beg, my angel, no need at all. Just appreciating the moment. I only get to take your virginity once. I’m savouring you, and I mean that literally.” Sherlock found out how true that was. John took his time. He began with small touches, kneeling beside Sherlock but keeping him in place, his head and shoulders down on the bed, his arse high in the air, his back arched just slightly, “So bloody beautiful.” John’s voice was rough but soft. His hands were gentle and confident. He knew what he was about, and Sherlock knew he was being worshipped.

John’s kisses were sucking and hard in places, soft and lingering in others. He shifted himself constantly to access different parts of Sherlock’s body, his hands, and if it could be managed, his mouth, covering every single inch of his transport. At long last John knelt behind him once more, his kisses more heated, his tongue now joining his lips as he explored Sherlock’s behind. John’s hands grasped him, kneading and spreading him until John’s wandering mouth finally made its way inward.

John licked him right across his pucker and it was the most shocking sensation he could have imagined. The warm soft wetness of it was strange, how it wiggled and pressed, how it returned again and again until Sherlock realised he was spreading himself wider, reaching back to pull himself open, encouraging John to lick harder, to do more.

John was very obliging.

John’s tongue pushed into him again and again. His fingers spread him wider still, encouraging him to relax, to become yielding, to open. Sherlock was panting into the towel as he took in the sensation of John’s fingers rubbing, pulling gently. He felt the growing dampness as John made him wet, and Sherlock blushed at the hungry sounds John was making as he practically rooted and nudged his way into Sherlock’s body, using his own saliva to make him slick. Sherlock blushed all over, never once having considered how intimate it would _feel_ to actually make love like this.

Sherlock was further surprised when John reached forward and made him suck on his finger. Sherlock understood and made sure to wet it well with his tongue. Extracting it John then used the very same finger to toy with Sherlock, dipping the tip in and out of his bottom, pushing deeper and deeper, allowing Sherlock to rock his hips a bit to push down onto it until he was riding it easily. “That’s it, my beautiful man, feel how good that is.”

Now John retrieved the bottle of lube, not remarking on the absent condoms. Sherlock noted the difference in slide and friction as John eased his finger in again, pressing down and pulling up in turns, stretching Sherlock deliberately before slowly nudging a second finger in to join the first. He became acutely aware of his own flesh as John made him ready. Time went both fast and slow for him. It felt as if John worked so slowly that he barely noticed the transition from fingertips to being fully penetrated by three, yet at the same time each new phase was remarkable and unforgettable.

John’s hands and fingers were amazing. Sherlock shivered all over when he thought of all the damage those hands could cause if John so chose. He thought of all the blood that had coursed because of those same hands, friend and enemy alike living or dying because of John. His doctor, his soldier, his lethal and life-saving lover. Sherlock groaned louder now, how could he not? His transport was being altered, his entire being shaped and moulded for John, and Sherlock was so very willing to have it so. He would accept and adjust to every new thing that John provided him to experience, and he would be grateful for it.

Such pleasure already! The initial intrusion stopped feeling alien almost immediately, and Sherlock nearly keened with disappointment when John slowly removed those talented digits and urged Sherlock to turn around. “Soon, my angel.” John’s voice was rumbling, rough with desire, and so filled with love. “I need to…” Sherlock cried out as John took him into his mouth, sucking and licking boldly, causing Sherlock’s hips to buck. John teased him with slow pulls before gently pushing one finger back into his body and Sherlock was positive he was going to spend himself well before anything more happened. John’s fingertip brushed ever so gently across its target and Sherlock moan was choked off, becoming small grunts of surprised pleasure, but just before he reached the point of no return John stopped, “I want you to be on top, my love. I’ll let you take your time. I want to see _everything_.”

Sherlock nodded and smiled. This was good, better than he expected, though what that was he was unsure of. John could have just mounted him from behind, his face hidden from view, or perhaps he could still have topped with Sherlock on his back, but this, yes, this was best. Sherlock would have control of the pace. He would control his own transport as he took John inside himself for the first time. He would give John everything, but at his own pace, and that was so good that Sherlock felt that huge surge of warmth deep inside him that he now recognised as the love he felt for John.

Sherlock had wondered if he would be nervous or awkward but he didn’t feel so. It was simple enough to rearrange their bodies, both men sharing smiles of anticipation, their movements a match in point and counter-point, natural and smooth. John lay back and waited for Sherlock to make himself comfortable. It felt a bit odd to have his knees so wide apart, to gingerly rest his full weight on John, but the soldier grinned and Sherlock couldn’t help smiling back. “What next?”

“Make me ready.” John handed Sherlock the lube, “Be generous, more is better, especially the first time.” This was wonderful. John knew full well that Sherlock was curious about all aspects of everything. Something simple like applying lubricant might make someone else feel strange but for Sherlock, it was the perfect request. This he could understand, friction and pressure, glide and resistance. Those concepts he understood. As requested he made sure John was well-coated from tip to root, enjoying the slickness of it as he stroked for a minute or two. He liked having John in his hand, liked learning more and more about how to hold him, which spots got which reactions, and he might have gone on except, “Move forward, my love, let me get into place.”

 _Ah yes, it was time_. “Of course John.” Sherlock found his voice was soft and obedient again, not meek, but not balking for an instant. _John only wanted what they both wanted, why fight it?_ Shuffling forward a bit he found it easiest to simply brace himself on his hands while John reached between his legs to hold himself steady. Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt the glans of John’s penis rub against his opening which was fluttering and sensitive enough to make him gasp. “I think I’m ready.” Sherlock decided he needed to help John in whatever way he could. He had no idea how anything would go, all he could do was provide John with whatever cues might be helpful.

“Alright love, allow yourself to push down, you’re going to want to resist a bit and that’s okay. You’re in control. If something feels off, pull back. You decide. Go as slow as you need.” Sherlock nodded, looking down at John, taking in his lover’s expression, the set of his body, and knew that everything would be good, better than good.

Sherlock moved his hips a bit, letting John’s flesh nudge inwards the tiniest amount. It felt very different than his fingers had, the smooth curve of the glans, the artificial glide of the lube, and the newness of it all was a lot for him to process so he did as John asked, and took his time. When he felt it was time Sherlock pushed down. He went too fast and felt the sharp twangs of sensation that were anything but pleasurable and pulled himself away immediately. Waiting a moment or two to regain his composure Sherlock pushed down again, this time controlling his movements with greater care, easing John into his body. It wasn’t working well, and without thought he reached back and used his fingertips to press against John’s shaft, pushing it inward carefully.

Sherlock found his head was hanging back as he stared blindly at the ceiling, too lost in feeling what he was doing to take in anything else. It was _beautiful_. John’s body entered his, and each moment only made him feel more and more complete until there was nothing more to take and so he sat there. Sherlock felt his fingers trembling and could hear his lungs heaving short gasps of air as his thighs tensed and his back remained upright and arched slightly. John’s voice was filled with such wonder, “Glorious.” he whispered, “You are _glorious_ , my angel.”

A small whimper escaped him, not one of pain, but one of anticipation. Carefully he moved his hips, allowing John’s cock to press and shift a tiny bit, gauging the flare of sensations, seeking the ones that were good, and trying to avoid doing anything that felt anything otherwise. After a long minute of simply pressing, and rocking only the smallest amount, Sherlock pulled up nearly as slowly as he’d descended, and then pushed downward again. Dark threads of bliss began to gather and grow deep inside him as he grew accustomed to the feel of having his lover moving in him, and with care, he began to ride John cautiously, still barely rocking, merely riding the shaft until there didn’t seem to be any further threat of pain. “I want to lay down.” He felt shaky and wanted John to take control of everything. The part he’d been most concerned about was over, his virginity was well gone, and now he could relax and let go.

John didn’t argue, simply removing himself and letting Sherlock collapse back onto the pillows, “It’s okay sweetheart, let me.” Sherlock nodded. Time to let John show him what his reputation was all about, “I’ve wanted this so much.” John’s voice was still so soft, so full of need. “I’ll make this so good for you, swear.”

John did. He kept his promise, going so slowly that Sherlock felt like his entire existence had been reduced to the gradual push and pull of their bodies together as if each plunge and thrust encapsulated their whole existence. John was invading his life in every way possible, and Sherlock could never go back to being the way he was before he’d met John. The changes were permanent. Just as he’d never be a virgin again, Sherlock would never again be the man who had not loved John Watson. No matter how his soldier felt about him, the love Sherlock felt would never ebb away, or grow dim, but even as he acknowledged this truth about himself he found he was able to fully believe what John had said. Sherlock was _loved_ by John, deeply loved, and it would never stop shining either. “I’m all yours John, only you, forever.”

“So perfect.” gasped John, “That’s exactly what I want, Sherlock. You’re mine, all mine, I’ll never share you, not with anyone.” Sherlock found himself being passionately kissed, John’s body buried deep in his, his motions ceased entirely. When the kiss finally broke John pulled away and moved, tugging Sherlock’s body easily until the doctor was able to stand on the bedroom floor. He pushed Sherlock’s right leg up and apart, exposing him. He let go of his left leg to use his hand to position his cock, “You are so very, very perfect. You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, everything about you is amazing.” John pushed himself inward, his eyes focusing on Sherlock’s face, “Don’t hold back, I want to hear everything.”

 _As if he could stop himself!_ John began slowly, pausing to drizzle a few more drops of lube. He didn’t stop watching Sherlock’s expression, and each time he sank himself Sherlock satisfied his lover with a series of small moans and sighs that he could not control. John changed the angle of his thrusts gradually, and when Sherlock’s cries came with every breath the soldier looked satisfied. John was driving him crazy, his thrusts just enough to keep him rising slowly, but frustration was beginning to build as his tensions increased. “ _More_ John.”

John’s marvellously expressive face flickered for only a moment before he grinned, “Alright.” was all he said, and then he gave Sherlock more. With expertly gauged thrusts John slowly increased his pace, his gaze never leaving Sherlock’s face for more than a moment. The soldier listened to Sherlock’s panting moans, moving faster or slower depending on his reactions. Sherlock needed to brace himself somehow and so he gripped John’s waist with one hand and clutched the bedding with the other. “Good boy.” admired John and Sherlock felt himself respond to the praise as if it were a physical caress. “You’re my good boy, aren’t you?”

Sherlock could hardly make his voice hold steady enough to answer, “Yes…John...” Sherlock nearly grunted now, John’s thrusts were deep and deliberate. He felt his cock bounce a bit against his belly, its turgid length laying off to one side. Sherlock raised his head to look down, and it was almost too much for him. His cock was so dark now, almost angrily red. His testicles were drawn up tight, and he could see John’s shaft disappearing inward. “I need…” he began.

“Go ahead, touch yourself.” Sherlock now saw that the colour was high on John’s cheek and that the soldier wasn’t nearly as in control of himself as he might have wished. That knowledge made him moan even more as he understood that John was falling apart nearly as quickly as he was and that experienced or not, this was a first for his soldier as well, a milestone in their relationship. Reaching down Sherlock wrapped his fingers around his cock and began to stroke, “My lovely angel, such a naughty little thing.”

John’s pace dramatically increased, and Sherlock nearly shouted. Suddenly John changed the angle of his thrust and Sherlock _did_ shout, and loudly. _His prostate!_ John didn’t do it again, at least not immediately, but when he did Sherlock wasn’t any more prepared and he shouted again. It was shocking and astonishing and made Sherlock feel like he wasn’t in control of his body at all. It was _brilliant_. His hand moved faster, rubbing and stroking his penis, responding instinctively to the need to twist his hand a bit, to concentrate on particular areas that felt best. His small cries were ceaseless, and he barely noticed he was making them any longer, but their frequency seemed to give John great pleasure. It was all so much, and the heat within had finally built to a peak he could not deny, “John!”

“Good boy, such a good boy, go on then love, show me, go ahead Sherlock, let me see.” Sherlock’s hand flew up and down his shaft so fast he could barely see himself move. John kept moving steadily, sinking deep and fast into Sherlock’s body over and over again. His cries began to drag out until Sherlock was unable to stop to do more than drag in another desperate gasp of air and continue, “So fucking sexy!” John’s voice was rough again, and that did something to Sherlock. One last deep breath was all he managed before his entire body stilled for a long hard moment and then he was coming. Semen ejaculated over his belly, and even his chest but Sherlock didn’t see it. His eyes were shut tight, and all he knew was bliss. Every bit of him was made of pure delight, from the curls on his head all the way down to the tips of his toes. John didn’t slow or stop, he kept fucking Sherlock through his orgasm, letting him enjoy it fully, “My turn.” he sighed at long last.

John _fucked_ him. It was fierce and pounding, fast and almost rough. Sherlock’s post-orgasmic body revelled in it, his transport filled with endorphins, pliant and unresisting, “I want to feel you come in me,” sighed Sherlock softly, “I want to know that some of you will remain within me.”

Perhaps John swore. His mouth moved but no sound came out. Sherlock felt his entire body being slammed forward as John’s final thrusts were delivered with near-savagery. His eyes fluttered shut when he distantly felt a thin jet of warmth deep within his flesh and gloried in the knowledge that John Watson, killer and doctor, was, at last, claiming Sherlock as his, and his alone, for all time. Each throb that Sherlock registered felt like a benediction, a blessing made of ecstasy, a promise made from the very essence of each other. 

Weakly, he felt his leg slide down as John let go and slumped forward. He was so tired now, so content. He just needed to close his eyes for a moment to recuperate before he tried to clean himself. Sherlock felt his whole body relax, comfortable with the full weight of his lover on him, and content with the fact that John’s still firm penis was partially inside him, staying the release of semen that he’d worked so hard to deliver. “I just need a moment sweetheart. That was just…so good.” John’s breathing was slowing as well, “Just a moment, I’ll get up.”

“Alright my love.” Sherlock’s eyes stayed shut and his breathing gradually slowing until it was even and steady, a perfect match for John. Neither man noticed the soiled sheets or the cool of the room. Neither man noticed how John’s cock grew flaccid and limp, and neither of them noticed when as one they rolled to one side and held each other. Face to face, with Sherlock’s head tucked against John’s neck both men slept deeply, greatly satisfied, and completely comfortable.


	13. Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have finally enjoyed one another the way John promised they would but the world won't stay away forever.

The ring of a mobile woke them at dusk. Stumbling a bit John found it in time to answer, and lifted his mobile to his face, a huge smile splitting his face, “ _Murray!_ You old bastard, hey you found me! Go on, it’s not been that long!” John listened to someone chattering happily at the other end and giggled. Sherlock sat on the kitchen chair, then stood right back up again. His bottom was tender, not sore, but standing was obviously the comfortable option, “Right, shut it, Bill, I’ve got a problem.” There was abrupt silence, “Two old birds have a bit of a thing against me. They’re saying a lot of stuff about me and my fiancé,” a burst of chatter and then John, “ _Yes_ , he’s absolutely perfect. _I know!_ Me either! Traced? Good, these old birds made some calls and said…yeah? _Already_ on file? Wow, that was fast! I guess I should have known you weren’t calling to go out for a pint. Who? Seriously? Wait, they told him what?” John covered the mobile again to whisper loudly once more, “They’re laughing.” Indeed laughter could be heard over the mobile, “When’s it all going down? What? Now? _No!_ I’m supposed to be making a good impression!” John listened, “What, all of them? That’s a bit of overkill isn’t it?” John listened, “What if I hadn’t called. Oh. _Oh_ , that’s actually sweet.” John covered the phone and looked up at Sherlock, “They’ve been on their way for a bit already. They’ll be here soon. These guys are just darlings, you’ll love them, sweetheart. I can’t wait to introduce you.”

They were just going back to their room when Sherlock’s mobile rang. “Mycroft? What do you want?”

“I have very few superiors yet I have received a rather strange call demanding that our parents, as well as Gregory, show up at your flat shortly. Mummy and Papa are with me. We’re already _en route_ , ETA thirty minutes.” The call disconnected and Sherlock now saw was his lover was texting someone.

“John, I don’t want to see my parents on a billboard.” Sherlock felt a bit anxious. John was entirely unpredictable, but even though he felt a moment’s unease it was also very thrilling.

John laughed, “ _No,_ sweetheart, that was the young ones doing. These are the older ones. They play entirely different games, but they’re all a bit the same. Grateful.” _Ah_. _Much like the many favours owed to Sherlock, John had obviously stockpiled well-wishers during his long and probably very notable career as an army doctor_. That made sense to Sherlock who saw John was both prudent as well as practical, even if it was prudent and practical in ways that other people found a bit strange. Strangeness suited Sherlock and John was once again merely demonstrating yet another perfection. He nearly sighed dreamily.

Sherlock stood tall and did not try to hide the pleasure on his face, “Darling?” John was smiling with his entire face now and for some reason, Sherlock felt safer than he ever had in his life. “What’s going on?” Not knowing what was happening was a sensation so rare that Sherlock relished it. It was leaving him breathless, excited, and eager.

John rocked up onto his toes and pecked a kiss onto Sherlock’s lips, his eyes bright and twinkling, “Your parents poked the wrong hornet’s nest. We have to get dressed my love, visitors are coming.” John got Sherlock some pain relievers, wordlessly rubbing the detective’s back as he drank some water to get them down. Then the soldier bustled Sherlock into the shower for a fast hot wash before returning to their bedroom and urged him to dress nicely. Like magic, a sharp rapping knock could be heard in the distance just as they finished buttoning up. Sherlock was in a dark blue suit, but John had chosen trousers and matched it with one of his new jumpers, and his new leather bespoke shoes. “That’ll be them. See how nice they’re being? I’ve seen what they can do to doors.” _Who?_

They heard Mrs Hudson trill a call up the stairwell, and sure enough only a minute later the rhythmic march of several pairs of feet could be heard on those same stairs. John flung their door open wide to reveal a small, and a very dangerous appearing group of people crowded onto the landing. They were clearly military as evidenced by their full gear and uniforms, and in crisp synchronicity, they marched right inside, turned to face John, stopped abruptly, and snapped off a tight salute as if they all shared a single nervous system. Mummy and Papa were guided in by Greg and Mycroft, all of them looking slightly confused. John grinned at the strangers and saluted back. A woman with white-blond hair and brown eyes that somehow managed to be cold and respectful at the same time stepped forward, “Captain Watson.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. _Who was this?_

“Hullo lads and not-lads.” There were men and women in equal number, and all of them flashed a tight grin at the small man in front of Sherlock before focusing their attention on the rest of the room’s occupants. John’s voice was cheery as he pointed around, “That’s Greg, that one is Mycroft, the woman is Violet Holmes, and that’s her husband, Sieger.” John now pointed to the tall statuesque woman who stood in front of the group, “Everyone, this is Sargent Casey, she’s a bit of a tough one when it comes to rules and regulations.”

Mycroft and Greg both tilted their heads a bit in greeting and received their own salute. As one the unit turned to face Violet and Sieger, “ _Violet Marie St. Claire Holmes_ and _Sieger Augustus Holmes_ , you have been accused of attempting to begin legal action against _Captain John Hamish Watson_. By virtue of your relationship with your family and the Crown, we have been dispatched to convey certain information pertinent to this individual. Sieger and Violet Holmes, this is your first _official_ warning. Regarding Captain Watson; his person is protected both by the Crown as well as international convention. He is a war hero in more than one country, and has been awarded what amounts to diplomatic immunity in gratitude for services rendered.”

“But he’s _poor_! His records show no savings managed in all his years in service! Obviously, he’s a spendthrift and a wastrel! We _told_ Sherlock he was a gold-digger, and we were not wrong, this _doctor_ , if he really is a doctor, is only interested in our son’s fortune! He has no right…” Sieger was staring all around, his expression dazed and almost sick looking, “He’s a prostitute! They call him _Three Continents Watson_.”

Sargent Casey’s mouth twitched, “My understanding is that _Captain_ Watson has diverted a portion of his pension toward defraying costs of alternative treatment for veterans in need. He decided to pursue _unconventional_ therapy for his own rehabilitation. As for his lack of savings? While he was in the Army, Captain Watson regularly spent his pay on the less fortunate, providing food, clothing, and medical supplies for any who might have required assistance, _especially_ those who were not official victims of war. His generosity led to the saving of a great many _influential_ lives, his reputation for honour and humanitarianism covers _three_ continents, but clearly did not follow him home. He has a great many friends in the world, official and otherwise.”

“I wished I’d saved some of that food, we haven’t had a bite yet.” John’s stomach rumbled. One of the soldiers reached into one of the many small bags he had strapped to his body, and handed John a protein bar and bottle of water, “Saints! They’re all saints!” John took it and began eating it, breaking off small corners and giving them to Sherlock to have. Sherlock obediently ate them. “This is a lot of fuss though Casey, seriously, what’s going on? I was going to bitch a bit but what’s with the starch parade?”

Sargent Casey’s expression remained unchanged but Sherlock noticed the rest of the group looked amused. “John, you are the only man in the world who has managed to earn what amounts to global diplomatic immunity, and you’re asking _why_ we’re here? They’re not allowed to do what they tried to do, but because of who their family is we can’t exactly throw them in the pokey, though we’d really like to. If word of this gets out, diplomats around the world are going to be howling for their blood. We had to come to make an example.”

Sherlock saw that Mummy and Papa were trying to hold each other up, both of them grey of face, and looking more shocked and horrified than he’d ever seen them before. _His John was amazing! Astonishing! Surprising! Unexpected! Respected!_ Sherlock puffed up so much, he was filled with such pride. “ _My_ John?” he asked, “John is all of this?”

Suddenly the company _officially_ noticed Sherlock, and much as they had with the doctor they snapped off a sharp and precise salute, “This is my fiancé _Sherlock Holmes_ , go on, I know you’re surprised, you don’t have to hide it.” John sounded so smug, and Sherlock knew that he was beginning to blush but he couldn’t help himself. So many unexpected things had just happened, and John was looking up at him with that warm wonderful look in his eye, “He’s absolutely brilliant.”

Sergeant Casey sounded both exasperated and like she was trying not to laugh, “John, when you told everyone to bugger off no one expected you to begin _pole dancing_ , or to move in with detectives, and retired strippers. Murry is near dead from laughing, you realise this? Everyone at head-office doesn’t know if they should be embarrassed or impressed.”

“They’re impressed,” said John confidently, sounding even smugger than ever. Sherlock’s mind latched onto another stunning fact. _Mrs Hudson was once a stripper as well as an exotic dancer?_

Sargent Casey rolled her eyes, “Yes, they’re impressed but you’re hardly setting a standard. Your immunities buy you a lot of freedom but that’s it. You’re earning your own way in the world. No one is going to tell you what to do but you get no help doing it, well, unless someone tries to get you arrested for no _internationally recognised reason_.” She ended with a mild glare directed at Sherlock’s parents, “Seriously John, _pole dancing?_ Did you pick the most risqué occupation on purpose?”

“He’s amazing.” Sherlock blurted the words out, “Incredibly impressive even. I doubt anyone here can duplicate what he can do, not that anyone gets to see him dance but me.” Sherlock was scowling at everyone, “Take my word for it, he could have been famous at it given some time.”

“He’s a bit on the jealous side,” reported John gleefully. “You would be too if you had someone who can do what I can do, I’m not saying but I’m just saying.”

“Oh my god, Watson, you’ve not changed at all!” exclaimed Casey, who laughed at last, her eyes crinkling up at the corners, “Audacious to the very bloody end.”

“All the best doctors are.” John replied pretentiously, “They said I’d never use my arm again and you know what I said?”

“Fuck you?” ventured Casey. The other soldiers were now struggling to repress their laughter.

“Damn fucking straight. I’ll never be a surgeon again but I can still shoot, and do you see a cane? No, you don’t. This brilliant bit of lovely fixed all of that.” John sounded fierce now.

Now the soldiers eyed Sherlock with respect, “He didn’t need it.” explained Sherlock. They seemed to need more information, “It was all in his head.”

“So what now?” John tipped his head toward Sieger and Violet who apparently had been struck dumb with disbelief.

“Well, they’ve received their first warning. If they don’t try it again without due cause, and it had better be pretty amazing as well as irrefutable, then they can go about their lives as normal.” Casey seemed matter-of-fact.

“What happens with their second warning?” Sherlock was macabrely curious. This had to be the first time in their existence that his parents had been set back and with such firmness.

“They get the first warning repeated but with the added addition of a jail cell until their case is reviewed by an appropriate authority.” Casey and the rest of her contingent didn’t look at Mummy and Papa, but the room felt a degree or two colder.

“That would be?” Sherlock wanted to know who to thank for all that had just occurred.

“Not currently _need to know_ information.” Casey was smooth.

“These two were going to take Sherlock away.” John was suddenly just as angry looking as he’d been pleasant mere seconds ago.

“Yes Captain. We see they had arrangements for the removal of one male adult to be confined for a review of his mental condition.” Casey sounded disapproving and all of the soldiers eyed the Holmes parents coldly. “We can have a file delivered with all relevant information, if you wish it.”

“I do.” John stared at Mummy and Papa for a moment but they wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Casey cleared her throat, “Head office would also like to know about one _Sergeant Sally Donovan_. It seems _the children_ have been playing.” Casey sounded deferential, and almost hesitant to bring the topic up.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” John’s voice was light but the other soldiers swallowed hard and stood straighter than ever, “They’ll have their fun and no real harm.”

Delicately Casey dropped the line of inquiry and all of them saluted John one more time, “With your permission Sir, monitoring will continue.” She cut her eyes at Mummy and Papa and Sherlock noted that John’s grin grew larger, “Excellent. Well John, it was lovely seeing you. Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. It’s about time you settled down.”

“Thanks. It’s been fantastic seeing all of you. We’ll go out for drinks the next time you’re in town.” John’s grin was huge, and Sherlock was pleased with the arm that was slung around his waist, so casually he dropped his arm around the soldier’s shoulder, because John was _his_ , and _he_ was allowed to do things like that.

Casey turned as if to leave but paused, “Excuse me Sir, about your wedding…”

“Well of course you’re all invited! You’re my family right? I don’t have anyone but Harry and I need to show Sherlock off properly.” The soldiers all grinned back at John and snapped off a final sharp salute, “Off you go. I’ll let someone know where and when as soon as we have it sorted.”

“Captain!” As a single entity the soldiers left the flat, marching down the ancient staircase carefully, a chorus of polite, “Good day, ma’am.” as they obviously walked passed Mrs. Hudson.

John was smiling softly now, hugging Sherlock hard with one arm, “Dinner anyone? We were going to have a relaxing evening in, but it’s Sunday and you’re all here.”

Mummy looked revolted, her eyes darting around. Sherlock frowned lightly at the expression on her face. He adored 221 B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson’s building was the one place he had felt truly at home, and living here with John had been nothing but an ever increasing delight and pleasure. The ancient walls and Victorian design suited him very well. Papa cleared his throat, “I’m afraid not…Captain Watson, we must decline but we thank you for the invitation.”

“Mummy and Papa are being returned to their home, a car is meeting us, provided by your…friends.” Mycroft was almost deferential as he explained. Mummy and Papa looked stiff and uncomfortable.

John’s eyes were cold and hard, and his face was relatively expressionless as he gazed at the Holmes parents, “Very well then, if I can’t persuade you, then I’ll bid you good evening. Oh, by the way, have your cook give me a call. I have questions.”

Mummy looked startled as well as offended once again but Papa merely replied, “Of course Captain Watson. I’m sure Cook will be pleased to answer any question you might have.”

“I’ll stay for dinner!” Greg grinned at John and got a grin back in return, “Myc, let’s eat here, John’s _amazing_ in the kitchen.”

“Of course my dearest, I’ll just escort Mummy and Papa to their vehicle. I’ll be back momentarily.” Mycroft looked over to Sherlock, “I’m sure it will be a lovely evening.”

For the first time ever Sherlock was looking forward to a meal with his brother. He watched as their parents turned without saying a word of farewell, and he sighed. “Lovely seeing you again!” called John, “Glad it wasn’t a bother to pop by.” He waved even though their backs were turned, “Come back soon!” He kept calling out as they walked down the stairs, “Have a nice night!”

Greg was grinning nearly as hard as John was except he didn’t get to enjoy a lingering kiss with Sherlock like John did. “So? Get cooking Watson. I’ve got an appetite.” Lestrade rubbed his own belly with anticipation.

“Keep your shirt on.” John kissed Sherlock again, “Come on love, you can help measure things out again.”

“Very well John.” That had actually been very diverting and would give him something to do that had nothing to do with chatting or in any way having to hold a conversation. Sherlock smiled, and appreciated his lover even more. John was clever, brave, resourceful, and understatedly dangerous. He made boring things interesting, like eating, that was one of the dullest most repetitive activities ever. Now all three of them went to the kitchen where Lestrade was seated, and John put on the kettle, and Sherlock began pulling everything edible out of the fridge. A few minutes later there was a knock at the door, “Is the outer door locked? Mycroft must be on the street.”

“I’ll go.” said John immediately, setting down his knife. “Stay put angel, won’t be a tic.” Sherlock sighed gratefully. His bottom was still tender, and he wasn’t willing to even sit down for a minute. Instead he lay all the veg out on the counter, arranging things by color. John called from downstairs, “Sherlock, Greg. Come down please. Now.”

John’s voice wasn’t amused. In fact, the soldier sounded incredibly serious. Tender bottom or not Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He turned on his heel and went directly downstairs. John was standing in front of the open door, a chauffeur was standing out front. John turned, “Sweetheart, this man says he’s here to pick up your parents. Mycroft isn’t outside, not anywhere.”

The chauffeur looked as serious as John, “Captain Watson, I was given strict orders to return your parents to their home. I was briefly delayed by traffic, I was supposed to be outside two minutes ago, but an ambulance cut me off.”

John and Sherlock looked at each other. Greg stepped onto the street, looking anxiously up and down the empty pavements, “Myc?” he shouted hopelessly, “Mycroft?”

John reached out and laid a gentle hand on the DI’s shoulder, “Someone’s taken him Greg. We have to call in for help.”

“Anthea.” Sherlock said immediately, “She has all the same access Mycroft has. If someone took him, she’ll have surveillance from the CCTV on the street. Gregory. We will do everything we can to get my brother back to you.”

“What about your parents?”

“Oh. I suppose we’ll rescue them as well, if Mycroft is with them. That seems logical.” Sherlock felt no anxiety over his parents being gone, but a thread of worry troubled him about his brother being taken. That could not be good. Mummy and Papa were not interested in being loving and supportive, but Mycroft had dedicated his life to caring for Sherlock, so putting his physical discomfort aside Sherlock paced up and down the block while John called Anthea.

“Here, talk to Sherlock. He’s the professional.” John handed Sherlock his new mobile, a concerned look on his face, “Go on love, this is what you’re best at.” There was such faith in John’s voice.

Sherlock took the mobile, “Anthea. My brother and parents were kidnapped from in front of my building sometime in the last ten minutes.”

“Reviewing CCTV footage right now Mr. Holmes, and assembling a team to assist.” Anthea was crisp and professional. Sherlock expected nothing different from his brother’s protégé. Anthea had been with Mycroft for many years, and Sherlock had yet to witness her failing at anything, which was why Mycroft kept her. She was a mysterious person who didn’t seem to have an exterior existence outside of her work, but Sherlock knew that she could procure or find anything and anyone if she was asked to, and he was asking. He had no clues to work with but maybe… “Got it. A small group put them into a large car at gunpoint. All were masked but one has rather noticeable breasts, a woman. One more moment sir.”  Anthea paused, “I’m tracking their progress through the system, they seem to be heading out of the city. There’s a symbol on the back of the vehicle,” Anthea paused, “It’s the letter ‘M’ twice over.”

“Wait here love, I’m getting our coats.” John went back inside, “Mrs. Hudson, we have to go but we’ve left a mess.”

“Don’t worry John, I can manage it.” Mrs. Hudson looked worried, “What is happening?”

“Someone pinched Sherlock’s family. We’re going to find them.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Hudson’s hands were on her cheeks in shock again, “Hurry John. Poor Greg must be in such a state!”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade. The man was pale and definitely anxious looking. “Sherlock, how can I help? I can call my team…”

“Your team is not likely able to bring anything to the table.” Sherlock tried to be gentle, “Their skills are not going to be useful in this scenario. Trust me Greg, we will find my brother and bring him back to you. We won’t stop until we do.”

Greg was pacing up and down the pavements when John returned. The soldier was already in his coat and he helped Sherlock into his. The driver looked concerned, “Captain...”

“You are remaining with us. Contact Casey, tell her what’s up. I know she can’t help but you are going to be doing a bit of driving for us and I don’t know how long it’s all going to take. Your name, soldier.”

The driver snapped off a salute as sharp as Sergeant Casey’s, “Corporal Samuel...”

“Sam, good to meet you. This is Greg, and this is Sherlock.” John turned, “Darling, what did Anthea say, where do we head first?”

“South, wherever they’re going it seems to be out of London.” Sherlock was concerned, very concerned. His brother was a powerful man, he would have powerful enemies. If he’s been seized now, right in front of their home, then that meant they had been betrayed. “John, someone amongst your friends is a traitor. They knew enough to come at this time, and at this place. They knew that my parents would be here, and they predicted that my brother would bring them to the car. This was a set-up.”

John was scowling and his fists clenched. “I only know two people who are sly enough and wicked enough to plan such a thing.”

“Who are they?” demanded Greg, climbing into the car. Sam took the driver’s seat and John climbed into the middle of the back seat, pulling Sherlock in after him. “I’m going to kick them both right in the cock!”

“One of them is a her.” John looked furious, “Fucking cunt! This has her stink all over it.” John pulled out his mobile and angrily punched in a number, “Casper. It’s John. I’m calling in a code.” John listened for a minute, “My inlaws to be were just kidnapped right off the street in front of my house.” He listened again, “I know it, you know it, so stop fucking around with Sally and get on this. This is priority. White Queen is a go.” John ended the call and turned to Sherlock, “This is my fault love. I know it is! I’m positive I know who this is, and I’m betting that little drug gang we’ve inconvenienced caught their eye.”

“Who’s eye John? Who has my family?” John covered Sherlock’s hand with his and looked away for a minute, “John?”

The soldier was silent for a minute. He sighed and looked grim, “I had two…well I guess you’d say they were part of my team except that they were independents, I worked with them sometimes. Both of them were crazy but, well, we all were right? That’s why we always succeeded.”

“Who are they John?” Sherlock needed to know who was able to provoke such anger in his lover. “John, tell me.”

“A brother and sister team, fraternal twins. They had nearly the same name, it was a joke right?” John didn’t seem to want to name them but after another heavy sigh he did, “Sebastian Moran and Mary Morstan. She used to be married, but whoever her husband was is rumored to be dead. They’re twins like I said, crazy, and dangerous as hell. They loved to deal with all the wrong sorts of people. Our international drug dealers would have been right up their street.”

“Why Mycroft?” demanded Greg, “Why grab him? Or their parents? Why John?”

John looked grim and then he looked concerned. He took Sherlock’s hand in his and gazed up, “She’s been after me for a long time. I’ve never been interested. What she wants, her brother will procure for her, but I’ve never gone. Not ever. You have to believe that Sherlock, not _ever_.”

“After you? What do you mean John?” That sick feeling was back, that roiling desperate feeling that left him disconnected and adrift. “What does she want?”

John swallowed hard and looked away. “Mary wants to marry me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG WHAT DID I DO?


	14. Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has learned something that makes him absolutely ill! Someone is after John, HIS John! Sherlock won't stand for that, not for a moment.

The car rolled over the pavements in silence. Sherlock couldn’t look at John for a few minutes. He had to close his eyes and face the street, ignoring the entire world as it went by, and struggling fiercely to contain the jealousy that swamped him, filling him was a dark fire that burned hot. _Mary Morstan was a threat! She wanted his John and that was something that could never be allowed, but on the other hand, she had his family, his brother, and what was he to do?_ Sherlock was aware that John was stroking his hand anxiously, clearly attempting to sooth his lover, “What does she look like?” His voice was as cold as the fire inside was hot and he still couldn’t look at John.

“Sherlock…please love, look at me.” Sherlock opened his eyes and glared out the window. _Mary Morstan! How dare she? How dare anyone?_ John sighed, “Well the last time I saw her she’d dyed her hair blonde, white-blonde. She’s a brunette naturally but in the desert, well, her dark hair stood out too much. Her brother is ginger, but he might as well be invisible for all his victims know. Mary is shorter than me by six centimetres, and she’s a master of physical deception. She can change everything about herself, a real chameleon. Her brother is completely soulless, but they both are. Nothing makes them happier than destruction. They delight in chaos. They’re thrilled when they can crush something, and for no better reason that to see if they can. It’s revolting. I had to work with them but when we did it was always a strict contract. They had to behave themselves, and the only thing they love, apart from each other, is money. Sebastian is a right prick but he dotes on Mary as if she was the centre of the fucking universe, and Mary is a spoiled brat. Both of them have a temper and are incredibly casual about causing pain and injury. Nothing matters to them, they’ll hurt a child as easily as an adult.”

“ _White Queen is a go_.” Sherlock snarled, “How long did you _dream_ about her before you came up with _that_ name?” John’s inhalation of breath was sharp and filled with hurt. Sherlock felt terrible instantly and immediately turned to look at his lover, “I’m sorry John, you didn’t deserve that.” John looked upset and pale of face, “John, I’m so sorry, you do _not_ deserve to be doubted. I apologise.”

John was the one swallowing hard now, “No need to apologise, Sherlock, Mary took your whole family! This is all a great huge shock for you. This is all my fault.” John looked guilty and chagrined, and Sherlock could not bear it, “I promise I’ll find them all.”

“ _We_ will find them all, my love, you and I _together_.” Sherlock brought John’s hand to his lips and pressed a reverent kiss to it.

“ _And me!_ They took Myc, and at least one of these crazy shits is getting the boots put to them!” Sherlock looked over to Lestrade. The man looked strained and furious at the same time. Sherlock thought of how long it had taken he and Mycroft to work things out, and to get to this point in their lives. He swore to himself that both men would be together to declare their love to the world, and to have a real future together. _No pair of demented contractors were going to stop them!_

“Of course Greg, Seb has a pin in his left calf, and Mary has a blind spot on her right side. Kick away.” John was looking up at Sherlock, “Darling? Are you alright?”

“Not really John, but don’t fear, my love. It’s very upsetting of course but changes nothing between us. This _Mary_ character can want you forever, she’s never having you.” Sherlock would never give John a reason to doubt his love for him. He regretted his temper momentarily taking over. He took John’s chin in his hand and made his lover look directly into his eyes, “You are promised to _me_ , and me alone. I will not allow you to break that promise, nor will I allow anyone else step between us. You and I will do whatever it takes to retrieve my family.”

Sherlock took John’s mobile from him and hit redial, “Anthea. _Update_.” He snapped out the words harshly.

“CCTV confirms that the vehicle is heading out of town. We have several cars trailing them on parallel routes, and there are several teams waiting to intercept on your word.” Sherlock was satisfied. Whoever Moran and Morstan were, they obviously hadn’t taken Mycroft’s connections or preparations seriously. Mycroft operated in a subtle but powerful way. Discretion was a way of life with him, and no one knew for certain how far his influence reached. “There’s a series of warehouses, it seems that they are heading towards that region. Perhaps they plan on taking your family there. We can extract…”

“You will wait for us. Anthea, I know you are anxious to find your employer…”

Anthea nearly spat the words out, “Save it, Sherlock, you don’t give a fuck about your brother, you’ve made that more than clear to everyone…”

John grabbed the phone away and nearly hissed into it, “Shut your fucking mouth, _Anthea_. You’re not the only one who can dig things up or do you want me to see what _the children_ can dig up on you?” There was silence at the other end, “I know your type, Anthea. Don’t think I won’t be willing to crush you as hard as I plan on crushing Seb and Mary, so never _once_ think that you can speak to Sherlock with anything but the _greatest_ deference. We’re getting Mycroft _and_ their parents back. _Sherlock and I_ are going to tie this little knot closed and make it disappear forever _so don’t fuck with me!_ I can ruin your day anytime I want and no amount of bureaucracy will be able to hide or save you. I’m _allowing_ you to help. I don’t need it.”

“My people…” Sherlock could hear the anger still in Anthea’s normally impassive voice.

“…are going to do what they’re told. _My_ people are already closing in and believe me _Anthea_ , the only good you’re going to do this night is mop up the mess. I can find your _true_ name and all the dirty little secrets you’re trying to hide. Shut the fuck up and don’t piss me off again.” John ended the call with a savage stab of his finger. He turned to Sherlock and tenderly took his hand, “Sorry love, I…almost lost my temper there.”

“Can you really find them all?” Sherlock didn’t care how angry Anthea was, only John mattered.

“Yes, my angel. The children and I have been waiting a really long time for this. Seb and Mary are in London, and even though I wasn’t expecting this, they couldn’t have come to a worse place to try their shit. The children really are _mad_. They’ll use any technological resource they can find, they can hack into any system, find anything at all, and there’s really nowhere to hide in a town like this, not from them. Sebastian and Mary don’t realise, they’ve never been team players, never loaned a helping hand a day in their life. They’re close-minded, selfish, arrogant, bloodthirsty, sharp as tacks, but only about what interests them. They think people are mindless sheep, they ignore anyone they’re not using or being paid by. That’s always been their greatest weakness.”

“But not yours.”

“No love, not mine.” John sighed deeply and looked at Greg, “A lot of things are going to happen right in front of you. Watch, but don’t get involved. Let me take care of everything, Sherlock and I can take out Mary and Sebastian ourselves but you will only get in the way, and then into trouble. I can protect Sherlock but I can’t protect you. The children have no allegiance to you, only to me, and because of me, to Sherlock. There’s nothing that can be done against me legally, I can do things you can’t.”

Greg was looking at John like he was an alien being and Sherlock wasn’t sure he liked the expression on the DI’s face, “You’ll let me save Mycroft though?”

“I promise Greg.” Greg heaved a great sigh and looked out his window, his face filled with concern and worry, “You’ll be back together before dawn, you can count on it.” John’s mobile rang. John answered it with one hand and rubbed Sherlock’s thigh soothingly with the other, “Casper? What’s the news?”

“Have they found where they’ve taken them?” John nodded at Sherlock’s question but kept listening.

“Is everything in place?” He listened some more, his hand not leaving Sherlock’s knees. “Where?” John leant forward and gave Sam directions. Sherlock recognised the address and frowned. “Gear?” John nodded, “Okay then, ETA five minutes.”

“John?” the soldier ended his call, “What are we doing John?”

“We’re making a stop for some equipment. Lestrade, I want you to remain in this vehicle with Sam. There are things you should not see, and things that you should definitely not know. Plausible deniability, right?”

“No fucking way! I’m going in with you! Okay, yes I might not be able to fight whoever those fucks are but I can release Myc, and the parents, and get them away!” John sighed and nodded, “You’re not worried about Sherlock?” asked the DI who was looking at both of them with a great deal of concern.

“No. He’ll be fine. He’s told me a bit about the things he’s studied, he’ll be more useful _with_ me than me trying to figure out how to keep him somewhere safe, right love?” John’s wink was cheeky, “We’ve never sparred but I think he can hold his own, at least against Mary. She was the brains, Seb was the brawn, but remember, Sebastian is _mine_ though. Remember that Sherlock. She’s going to say a lot of shit. I want you to hear her lies for yourself. Never doubt who I belong to, and it’s never going to be her. I’m all yours, you can rely on it, just like I can rely on you.”

Sherlock was very pleased with John’s faith in him. _Mary Morstan was never getting her hooks into his John! They’d struck a deal between them, and no one but Sherlock was ever going to marry John. He was going to fight for his man no matter what it took. He’d never had to strike a woman, but then again, he’d never had to physically fight for his family before, nor prevent someone from taking his fiancé away. Circumstances were unique._ “I’ll do my best.”

John grinned up at him, “You named at least three different martial arts that you’re good at. You know about handguns. I’ve seen you handle a blade in the kitchen, and I know damn well you know how to take a human body apart. Mary and Seb have no idea we’re coming so the advantage is all ours.

Sherlock’s mobile rang. He frowned when he looked at the blocked number. John mouthed the word _Sebastian_ and Sherlock nodded. It made sense that the pair would call with their terms now that they felt they had the upper hand. “Sherlock Holmes?” the voice at the other end was male, deep but not as deep as Sherlock’s, almost gentle in fact. “You don’t need to answer. Call me Colonel. Now, Sherlock, you’ve made a bit of a mess, and it’s been put to me to clean it up. To that end, I’ve taken your family. Following me? Say yes or no.”

“Yes, _Colonel_.” The words came out in a snarl.

“Ooh, lovely voice Sherlock, nothing like your brother.” Sebastian sounded approving. “We’re keeping your family hostage. We need two things from you. One. You make a certain problem and her baby disappear, and by disappear, I mean make them dead. Two. You tell John Watson that your engagement is _over_. Break things off with him, make him leave your flat within two days, and you’ll get everyone back unharmed. Got that? Two days Sherlock or we start trimming your mother’s figure with a knife and maybe help your father with a bit of an amateur face-lift. We can’t be fairer than that, can we?”

John made a motion to keep the conversation going, pointing dramatically between his mobile and Sherlock’s. Sherlock realised that Casper and the insane children that doted so hard on his fiancé were tracing the call, “John’s not at the flat, he’s searching for my brother. I can’t say when he’ll be back.” Not a word of a lie. The best deceptions were rooted in truth.

Sebastian’s voice was replaced with a woman’s, and she sounded angry, “I don’t care how you do it, Sherlock Holmes. You have no right to be engaged to John when he’s already got a wife. _Me_.” Her words were like a physical blow. “John and I were married right after he got shot. He’s _my_ husband, and he’ll never be yours.”

John was shaking his head in denial, his face filled with fury, “He never mentioned.” Sherlock managed to keep his voice cool but his heart felt like it was ripping open. _John was married!_ Sherlock felt a black abyss opening beneath him. This was devastating.

“Well, he might have been a tiny bit unconscious but the paperwork is legitimate, at least it will be once we’ve filed it in all the correct places, and no one will ever be able to say otherwise. By rights, I ought to be punishing you for touching my husband but since you’re not here I’ll have to make do with your brother.” A meaty thud and a deep gasp could be heard. _Mycroft! Someone was striking Mycroft!_ Sherlock had a second realisation. _Mary hadn’t filed the documents yet!_ A thread of hope grew.

“If you _married_ him why aren’t you _with_ him?” demanded Sherlock, “He’s been in London.” John was texting as fast as he could, his thumbs pressing letters carefully, and his mouth shaping curse words soundlessly.

“Well we got a bit busy, and I knew I could find him when I had a minute. Now I have a minute, I’ve found him, and conveniently we’re getting paid to retrieve what’s mine already. You pissed off a lot of powerful people Sherlock, only my marriage to John has protected you. Say thank you.”

“Thank you.” spat Sherlock angrily and hated how she laughed. _It was galling but at least his words to her were a lie. He was only giving her what she expected to get, he most certainly didn’t mean it. Still…_ “Leave my brother alone.”

“Why?” Sherlock flinched each time he heard Mycroft groan. “This should be you. I was going to take you and neuter you for sleeping with my husband but you didn’t leave the flat with your family the way I’d hoped, so your brother is taking the hits for you.”

“ _Stop!_ I’ll do it. I’ll break it off with John. He’ll be gone as soon as he gets home.” John looked enraged and sick at the same time but Sherlock leant over and kissed his forehead gently, shaking his head, “I’ll even pack his bags. He’ll be gone within minutes after he gets back.” _Never_. He mouthed the word to his lover and John relaxed a tiny bit.

The dreadful sounds stopped instantly, “There, that’s not so bad, is it? You get your mum and da, _and_ your big brother, all in exchange for a man you barely know. That’s not a terrible deal, is it?” She sounded so condescending that Sherlock wanted to be ill.

Mary ended the call but seconds later John’s mobile rang, “Hello?” John scowled, “ _Mary_. I should have known it was you.” John lied easily but he also gripped Sherlock’s hand hard, and brought it to his cheek to keep it pressed there, “What do you want Mary? I’m busy right now.” He listened, “I don’t have time to go back to the flat right now…my fiancé’s family was kidnapped.”

All of them could hear her furious screech, “ _You are to go back to Baker Street right this instant John Hamish!_ There’s a message waiting for you. Once you’ve gotten it you _will_ call this number.” A text arrived. “We’ve been guaranteed that you will be calling _tonight_. Be sure that you do. I have three bodies to play with, and you remember very well how I like to do that.”

“It’s going to take me at least an hour to get back.” lied John again. He listened, “Why the fuck would you want to do this, Morstan?”

“All in good time John. Hurry back to Baker Street. I’m waiting.” Mary clearly ended the call because John nearly dropped his phone in disgust.

“Fucking _CUNT_!” he shouted, “She’d better be lying. I am _not_ married to that psychopath! I’m not!”

“ _I am going to kill her!”_ Sherlock was shouting too, “How _dare_ she?”

John turned to face Sherlock as best he could, ignoring Lestrade entirely, “I swear to you I had no idea, none at all Sherlock. At no point ever did I agree to marriage with her, nor do I have any recollection whatever of it happening. If she’s not lying then this can’t possibly be legal! She’s wanted me with her for ages, but never once have I encouraged her, or shown interest in her. This entire relationship, if you can even call it that, is _entirely_ in her head!”

“It doesn’t matter John! I’m seriously going to kill her, and married or not, _this ends tonight!_ ” Greg was doing his best to not hear their words but Sherlock didn’t care. He felt ill, outraged, furious, and disoriented. This was all happening so fast! _Mary was a threat, a threat, a threat, and he had to stop her!_ Irrational fury filled him and his hands shook.

John’s phone chirped and he brought it to his ear, “Casper? What news?” John listened and a thunderous expression clouded his face, “She did what? _When?”_ he listened further, the storm receding slightly, and a mollified expression replaced it, “Good. Thank you. Seriously, Casper, Sherlock thanks you too.” John listened again, his head cocking to one side, “Right. Okay. Right. Yes. Good. No not that. Okay. Yes. Good, that’s good. Yes, more of that. No. Less of that. Okay. Right then.”

John ended his call, “What next Watson. Where to?” Lestrade sounded business-like. He’d managed to collect himself while they’d been on the phone, and he looked as serious as he sounded.

“One quick stop then on to where they’ve got everyone stowed away.” Sure enough, Sam pulled the vehicle over to a nondescript building where a fresh-faced teen waved merrily from a doorway, “Look, _Gustave_.”

Gustave was willowy and had a mop of bright curls on top of his head, and acne on his face. He looked barely old enough to be out of school, but Sherlock recognised the madness in his eyes. This was one of the children. “Doctor Watson, it’s an honour, a real honour to see you again. Casper said you’d be here in person, but I almost couldn’t believe it.” The youth threw himself into John’s arms and hugged him tight before standing back and brandishing his arm proudly. Pulling up a sleeve he displayed a nasty scar that went all the way to his shoulder, “See? It all works thanks to you! You said girls loved scars, and you were right.” Gustave was grinning, a tooth-filled but cheerful grin, “Come inside Doctor Watson, we’re ready for you and yours.”

John took Sherlock’s arm in his and escorted him inside, following the young man down a brightly lit hallway into a room that was almost brilliantly white and filled end to end with computers and gadgets of every description. A handful of other youths grinned and waved from their stations, and John waved back, “How long have you been in town?”

Gustave shrugged innocently, “Oh, some of us might have wandered this way when you moved back. Not so many of us got to go back into active duty.” Walking past the computer stations Gustave briskly led them to yet another room, “There we are. Take whatever you want Doctor Watson, it’s all available.”

Sherlock looked around. There were racks of weapons, gadgets, and protective clothing. Gustave was now standing beside a tall dark man of indeterminate years. Other youths were busy doing things on benches and in front of monitors. They turned curious faces toward them, and all grinned at John, the same look in their eyes, all of them not quite right, but somehow, that was a comfort.  “Casper.” John was engulfed in an embrace and Sherlock realised he wasn’t at all affected by the young and relatively attractive people that were touching his intended. “Hello, it’s been too long.”

“Doctor Watson.” Casper was soft of voice. He raised his face to look up at Sherlock, releasing John as he did so, “Mr Holmes. We are incredibly pleased to make your acquaintance. We’ve heard your name many times from our contacts on the street. That our Captain found you is nothing but good.”

“You know the Homeless Network?” Sherlock felt right at home in this room. It was filled with secrets and he liked that. The children, as they clearly preferred to be called, were all mad as hatters, and he liked that too. They _respected_ John, and nothing could have won Sherlock over more.

“There’s a network?” Casper sounded surprised, “Well, learn something new every day! No, we only know a few people on the streets, but your stories have been heard many times. You’ve helped one or two of us, not realising of course that we weren’t exactly homeless, but then you met John, and what an amazing connection that is!”

“You knew of my Sherlock _before_ we met?” John was the one who sounded jealous, and indeed he moved right over to take Sherlock’s hand in his. “How long?”

“Well, you moved back to London about six months ago. That’s when we began to set up. When we needed information we did the same thing he did, we hit the streets. It didn’t take long for us to catch wind of the rich boy who liked to play rough and had deep pockets. He pays well, and he takes care of those who do right by him. He’s a good egg John, a keeper.”

“Oh, I’m keeping him alright. Now. Tell us what you’ve done about Morstan?” Sherlock’s lips curled as her name was mentioned. _That attempted usurper!_

Casper smiled, “She did what she said she did, at least, she filled in all the forms and forged your signature. All of it’s been found, the databases cleared, the documents shredded then burned, and all trace has been erased. Even if the courts managed to find them intact it wouldn’t have been legal. Everyone knows where you were at the time, and at no time during your convalescence did you sign any sort of form, nor did you leave the infirmaries for any sort of ceremony. Your marriage to Mary Morstan is now a figment of her imagination, just as it always was. We would have done her in tonight if we’d known you didn’t want to, but we figured you would.”

“ _I_ will be killing her.” Stated Sherlock coldly, “She deserves to _die_ for trying this.” He knew he was being irrational but Mary was a danger, not just to his relationship, but to the world at large, if he understood the facts correctly.

“She definitely deserves to die, pretending to be married to our Captain is just one of many reasons.” Gustave was pale now, his fists curled up hard, “That monster deserves to die as slowly as she can be made to die. Even that mad-dog of a brother isn’t the pure evil that woman is!”

Sherlock glanced about the room. He took in maps of the city, saw bus routes, and train routes, flashing lights the made up highlighted locations, and a dozen or so projects that the children were all concentrating on, “You’re tracking someone. Not just Mary and Sebastian. Who?”

“Oh, he’s as bright as they say.” Casper was approving. “Well done you!” he looked around ruefully, “I guess we should have known to be a bit more discrete.”

“I _told_ you he was brilliant. I’m not just saying that because he recognized what a catch I am!” John’s expression was proud and filled with love, “ _He’s_ the one I’m marrying, the only one I’d ever choose.” John’s expression was as fatuous as his tone, and it soothed Sherlock greatly.

Casper smiled tolerantly at John, but answered Sherlock, “The twins have an employer. We’ve been trying to find him for a very long time. This fellow is the one who took the twins out of the Middle East, they just abandoned post in the middle of the night! They’ll do whatever he asks, and even by our standards, he’s a little…off. He’s in town with them, we know it. He has no idea we’re on his six. This is all coming together beautifully. John, we’re pleased as punch that you called us. Jim could have been one of us but he ran off to play his own games, and he doesn’t play nice. He’s hurt a lot of people that didn’t need hurting, so we’ve decided to stop him.”

“Who’s that then?” John looked mildly curious.

“Fellow by the name of _James Moriarty_. Calls himself a professor, but he isn’t. He’s just a mean spirited little shit who gets his jollies causing mayhem and destruction. I’d say he’s read far too many graphic novels in his life, fancies himself a master criminal. He’s tried to set up a lot of deals in town, but we’ve stopped nearly all of them. He likes to play games, but then, so do we,” Casper grinned, “I can’t even imagine what kind of team they’d make if John actually joined them. Good thing he’s not into siblings.”

“I _never_ was! _Seb_ had a better chance than Mary did, and I _hated_ that fucker! Both of them were black as tar on the inside! I liked to fix things but they only ever got off on destruction, and the worse it was the happier they were.” John looked around the room, and Sherlock noted the hard expressionless faces of the children, “More than one of you fell into their traps.”

“Yes, John.” There were nods aplenty and frowns to match. One young woman stepped forward, “But this time, the trap is ours, and they don’t even realise they’re in it.”

“Absolutely correct Sarah, let’s get to it then.” John grinned, and the children grinned back. Sherlock was reminded of a video he’d seen on sharks. These smiles were much the same, tooth-filled and hungry. “What are you offering?”

Casper and Gustave eyed John up and down and Casper said, “Strip.”

“Right.” John pulled off his jumper and quizzically Sherlock removed his Belstaff. John proceeded to undress right down to his pants, so Sherlock followed, allowing the children to use measuring tapes to help them choose which gear to pick. Gustave was examining John’s shoes, handing them back, “Sherlock got them for me.”

“We recognise the work, you won’t need a pair of ours then.” John grinned over at Sherlock who smiled back. John deserved only the best and that’s exactly what Sherlock had gotten him. The children were impressed and John looked cocky with pride. “Let’s get you geared up.”

The children came forward in a small crowd and Sherlock found himself garbed from head to toe in a lightweight fabric that clung to him, “This will deflect a blade, the outer layer will deflect a bullet. Normally we’d include plating but we’re trying to disguise you in case you get patted down. This fabric is new tech, a huge improvement over what’s commercially available. We’ve designed it to look like thermal underclothing so you’ll be warm but safe. You can get back into your suit now.” Sherlock was given boots as well. Casper laced them up for him, crisscrossing the ties to make a complex pattern. The boots had sheaths build into them, long flat blades fit almost invisibly into them. Sarah showed Sherlock a small whip-like weapon that had a barbed blade at one end. She flicked it and it became a long rod; deadly, flexible, and very dangerous. Sherlock loved it. A garrotte was tied around his right wrist, and when he was finally declared done he was be-weaponed from head to toe, “He still looks gorgeous,” marvelled John enthusiastically, “Damn.”

Sherlock was dry-mouthed himself. John looked amazing, a deadly killer in his natural environment. The children poked fun at his jumper, “I prefer how he looks in them.” Sherlock was staunch. John probably looked breathtaking in his army clothing but his casual-wear was how Sherlock got to see him every day, and he would never be tired of it, “It’s his disguise.”

“Well, the grandpa look really suits him. All he needs now are some heavy-framed glasses and he’d be fit for the retirement home.” Casper was poking John gently but Sherlock nearly growled with appreciation. _Heavy-framed glasses? With a jumper and his clunky shoes? John would be impossible to resist. He was devastatingly attractive as it was!_ Suddenly Sherlock felt a tiny bit sorry for Mary. He understood why she wanted John so very badly. _Who wouldn’t want John? He was spectacular_.

“You _wish_ you looked as hot as I do.” John was sanguine. “Or even a fraction as hot as Sherlock looks any minute of the day.” John bent and twisted himself, checking to see that everything was properly placed, and not a problem. Sherlock followed his lead and found that the holster beneath his right arm was chafing. John adjusted it carefully before buttoning Sherlock’s coat back up, “They’re not expecting you, my love. I’m going in first. You and Greg will go in after. The children will take care of any monitoring system, and deal with any guards or whatever that might be in the building.” He turned to Lestrade, “All you have to do is find our people and get them out.” Casper and Gustave lead four other children, three girls, and another lad, out to a long brightly coloured van. All of them were giggling and pushing each other around. They looked dressed to go clubbing, heels, and tight revealing outfits, garish makeup, and wild hair styles. John grinned fondly, “Little bastards.”

“I like them,” declared Sherlock firmly. He did. They were clearly devoted and very determined, and Sherlock admired that. All of them were casually brilliant, clearly genius’s in their own right, and he appreciated how it manifested. _Yes, they were likely all mad, but self-aware and focused_. “This is going to be fun.”

“I know!” John looked excited, “I can’t wait for them to see you in action, my angel. Like poetry.” Sherlock blushed at the tone of John’s voice, “I can’t wait to see what you do to Mary.”

“I promise to make it memorable, my dearest. She’s transgressed, and I’m not the forgiving sort.” He most certainly wasn’t. The twins had taken his family and threatened his relationship with John. A price had to be paid for such temerity, and Sherlock would extract it in blood, “Off we go, John. The game is on.”


	15. Warehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The children have equipped John and Sherlock to deal with the twins. All that remains is to put an end to their manipulations.

Sherlock felt adrenaline course through him. He was waiting in the delivery bay of a nondescript warehouse, the cement loading bay chipped and in need of a paint-job. His lips still tingled from the scorching kiss John had delivered, and the palms of his hands were still warm from the shameless grope of John’s behind that he’d indulged in, wringing a blush from the otherwise robustly confident soldier, “ _Sherlock!”_ he’d protested, bright apples of color on his cheek, “Not in front of _the children!”_

Sherlock merely smiled down at his lover, and gave him another tender kiss between his eyes, “Get going John, I’m only giving you two minutes before we follow you in.” Casper was chuckling as he fitted Sherlock’s ears with discrete receivers, his left ear filled with John’s voice, his right with Sarah’s. “I’m not giving you one extra second with that _poacher_!” Sherlock was scowling, and filled with the urge to mark John somehow, something visible, and wished he’d had the foresight to arrange for a love-bite.

John seemed to understand and the blush grew deeper, “I’m counting on it love. Not one second longer. I’m going in, distracting her long enough for the children to do whatever it is that they’re doing, and then I fully expect you to burst in, guns blazing.”

“If you’d told me that’s what you wanted, we could have given Sherlock a hand-held flamethrower, he would have literally blazed.” Casper sounded earnest and Sherlock had to smile. _He really did like the children, they reminded him of John, or at least, had John-like potential once they matured_. He’d watched as the other vanload had disembarked, walking away in pairs like they were on dates, except they slipped off to the alleyways surrounding the warehouse they’d stopped at.

“Maybe another time, Sherlock would have enjoyed that.” John winked as he pushed the doors open, “Two minutes Sherlock, remember, not a second longer.”

His mental countdown began the moment the doors closed behind John, and Sherlock instantly grew tense and worried. “Here. This will make you feel better.” Casper handed Sherlock a blade that had a strangely green edge, “It’s poisoned. All you need to do is graze someone, and even if they get away they’ll only have thirty minutes to find an antidote before it kills them.” Casper then hung a chain necklace around Sherlock’s neck. It had two pairs of metal animal paws on it, the claws painfully sharp, “There. The antidote. If the blade gets turned on you, slap that into your chest, you’ll be fine, _and_ you look badass. One foot will do you, but I believe heavily in back-ups and precautions, especially against the twins.”

The seconds ticked by quickly, and before even one had gone by Sherlock heard John’s voice in his ear, “Surprise!” The soldier’s voice was cheeky and filled with laughter.

A woman’s voice cried out, “John!” _Mary Morstan!_ She sounded shocked.

“What the fuck, Watson! How did you…” _Moran_. Sebastian sounded angry and as shocked as his sister, “How did you find us?”

John chuckled, “Oh, I have my little ways. What, no hugs? I thought I’d at least get a hug from _my wife_ , what?” The soldier sounded amused and angry at the same time and Sherlock could practically see the savage smile on his lover’s face.

“You know about that?” Mary sounded unhappy. “Who told you? How did you find us? Seriously John! How can you be here?”

John laughed lightly again, the sharp tone in his voice undiminished, “This isn’t the welcome I was expecting _dearie_. What, is our marriage on the rocks already? I would have thought you’d be happy to see me.” John paused for a moment then demanded, “Where are my _real_ in-laws?”

Mary made a sound of pure petulant indignation and Sebastian sounded like an animal as he growled his words out, “You are _married_ to _my_ sister, and not those inbred aristocratic pukes! _I’m_ your only in-law, not them!”

Sherlock snarled in return, and pushed the doors wide, Casper and Greg hard on his heels, “That _bitch_! She’s never getting my John!”

“ _White Queen is a go. Mark! Mark!”_ Casper’s voice was urgent as he spoke into his mic but Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. There were a series of doors in front of him but all he needed to do was sniff the air. He caught a faint trace of his beloved and unerringly followed John’s trail through the building until he burst through a pair of doors. “Go on Sherlock, the rest of us have the guards and tech to deal with.” Sherlock nodded and pushed his way through the very same doors John had gone through.

Three pairs of eyes locked onto him but only one pair was filled with delight, “Hi love, look who’s here. It’s my _wife_.” John’s smirk _was_ ugly, and it made Sherlock feel good. Sherlock turned to look at the brother. Sebastian was at least as tall as he was, narrow-hipped but heavily muscled. The twins looked nothing alike. Sebastian had brown hair that bordered on ginger, his face craggy and dimpled. Mary looked like she smiled a great deal, her crows-feet and laugh-lines speaking of someone who took great joy in life. Sherlock grew dark inside as he thought of the dreadful things she must have laughed at, and how many acts of pure devastation it must have taken in her life to carve those lines so deep. The twins were both dressed in black from head to toe, looking lethal and deadly in their own separate ways though Mary’s face was filled with fury while her brother was a blank.

“Yes, she did mention something about me needing to break off our engagement. Should I, darling?” Mary’s face was an attractive one, as was Sebastian’s even if both of them looked entirely gobsmacked. “She was fairly adamant that I do so immediately.”

“Oh no my angel, I don’t think that’s necessary at all.” John winked at Sherlock.

“Why is that, my sweet?” Sherlock’s voice dripped with honey.

“Well, I’m _not_ married to Mary. Those false records have been expunged and destroyed, there’s no trace of a union between Mary Morstan and myself anywhere in the world, and even if there was, and it was by some miracle considered legal, I would go a pretty long way to end it as soon as I could. Good thing I don’t have to. It’s all gone.” John sounded casual and almost flippant.

“Indeed, my love.” Sherlock felt very content. John was his, and Mary the Usurper was pale with shock and rage. “Not a single trace.”

“ _WHAT?_ ” Mary was shrieking again, “ _WE ARE MARRIED JOHN WATSON! YOU ARE MY HUSBA…_ ”

“I’m not your _anything_ , you harpy! I don’t know how you ever managed to convince yourself that I was at all attracted to you, or that I would ever in a million years ever be convinced to wed myself to someone like you!” John’s voice was flat and colder than ice. Each word was delivered with anger and Sherlock thrilled at the sight of Mary’s face as he approached, “Sherlock is the only person in the world I will ever marry willingly, and as a wedding gift I’m giving him _you_.”

“He really is _amazing_.” Sherlock said softly, “Seeing him dance that first night was one of the best things in the world to ever happen to me,” he watched as Mary’s face twisted in anger. She looked how she’d made _him_ feel, jealous and sick. It felt very satisfying to witness such a reaction so he continued. “I proposed right out in the open, where everyone in the world could see _and he said yes_. I won’t have to trick or fool him into taking his vows, I won’t have to lie and cheat my way into his life. No matter what you do Mary Morstan, you will _never_ have John Hamish Watson for yourself, not ever. He’s mine, and touching him is something you never get to do.”

Sebastian looked blank, like an automaton. “Kill them both,” hissed Mary and Sebastian came to life.

A knife materialised in Moran’s hand and a mace in the other. John laughed and Sherlock saw two long savage blades sprout from his lover’s sleeves, “Same old tricks Sebastian? Ah well, you never did try to learn anything new.” Mary was smiling broadly, her eyes alight with dark merriment, and filled with approval as her brother remained silent, twisting around with grace before launching himself at John who moved out of the way with ease. Mary’s smile slipped a bit, “Oh. You thought my leg was shite, didn’t you? Well, it isn’t. You can thank Sherlock for that.” John’s voice was light and Sherlock watched as he moved smoothly around Sebastian, his dancer’s body lithe and flexible. Mary’s jaw dropped in shock.

“Sexy, isn’t it?” remarked Sherlock, “I don’t mind if you agree, after all, you’ve wanted John Watson for a long time. I’d hate for you to die and not know why I’m going to kill you to keep him.”

Mary’s head whipped around to stare at him, looking at him for the first time. In his ear, Sherlock heard Casper’s reports begin, “The children have dealt with the guards, they’re chasing Moriarty your way. They’ve done something to the monitoring system. Lestrade’s reached your family, they’re locked in a strong-room but one of the children can get the door opened, it will take just a minute.” There was no way for Sherlock to answer but then, he didn’t need to. “Time to die, Mary,” he said instead and pulled out his poisoned blade and the metal whip.

Mary looked terrified, “Sebastian!” she shouted, and her brother turned to look, “Help!” she screamed dramatically, “He’s going to kill me!”

“Mary!” Sebastian’s voice was higher than Sherlock expected from such a large man. He’d expected a deep rough voice, not the gentle lilt that was oddly echoed from across the room, “Run to Jim, _run_ Mary!”

There was a small man at the far end of the great room. Mary turned on her heels to speed toward the stranger but Sherlock wasn’t having any of that. Easily, he stowed his weapons and threw his hands in the air. Flipping forward Sherlock utilised a move he’d rarely had occasion to try. His long body covered ground faster than Mary could run and with ease he jackknifed right in front of her, reaching for the metal whip and lashing out at her. Mary screamed again and managed to duck to one side at the last moment before reversing the direction she was running in, now racing back toward her brother. Ignoring the small man at the doorway Sherlock sprinted after her, this time diving forward gracefully and catching her heel, causing her to fall hard on her stomach, her head cracking against the floor, “Sebastian!” she cried, spitting blood and scrabbling toward her brother even as Sherlock rolled to his feet. He raised his hand to throw the knife at Mary.

“None of that now _Sherlock_.” A voice that was even higher pitched that Sebastian’s spoke directly behind him. Without pause, Sherlock did a trick he’d worked on since he’d first read about it. He flexed his long legs and launched himself up and backwards. He could see the shock on the small man’s face. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to just spring away like that. He had a knife in his hand too but Sherlock knocked it from him the second his feet were back on the ground, “Ow!”

“ _James Moriarty,_ I presume.” Sherlock grinned. The man wielded another knife awkwardly. Obviously, the element of surprise was what he’d been counting on, “Welcome to the end of your world.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” The small man looked disgruntled. “We should have killed your brother when we had the chance.”

 _Mycroft was alive! Good. That would please Gregory_. “You wasted your opportunity but even if you had that’s not why I’m here.”

“Mary has dibs on the soldier.” The smaller man was displeased looking, “She’s been very patient with him, and it's time she got what she deserves.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock couldn’t agree more. “She’s going to get exactly what she deserves for attempting this. What was the matter, Mary? Uncertain of your abilities as a seductress? What made you decide to submit falsified paperwork in order to secure your marriage to John? What was lacking in you that you needed to go to such lengths?”

“Don’t speak to her that way!” Sebastian sounded furious and made a small effort to fight his way toward Sherlock except that John was giggling and attacking him almost playfully, forcing the taller man to stay put and watch his sister _and_ partner battle Sherlock unassisted. Sherlock smiled even as his eyes took in how both James and Mary moved. She was staggering groggily, except her steps were too steady for someone who was actually dazed. _She was trying to draw him in_. James was holding a knife awkwardly, and Sherlock saw the same gambit. His smile remained unchanged. “Mary get away from him!”

“Yeah Mary, get away from Sherlock before you try to marry him too. Darling, come here.” John ducked a swing from Sebastian just as Sherlock feinted toward Moriarty. When the small man ducked backwards Sherlock took advantage of the space he left behind to get back to his lover.

Three to two weren’t the best of odds when two of your foes were seasoned killers and you only had _one_ seasoned killer on your side, that is, unless one was a killer named Dr John Hamish Watson and the other person was a mad scientist by the name of Sherlock Holmes. His earpiece crackled into life, “All clear Mr Holmes. All guards are down.”

“No one is coming to help you.” Sherlock noticed how James was pressing his ear, clearly listening to his own device for word of assistance. “All your people are gone.”

“It’s not possible.” James had a faint Irish accent as did Sebastian but not Mary. Her accent was erased completely, but John had said she was a chameleon. She sounded as if she’d been born and raised in Central London, not wherever it was that she’d actually been spawned. “This is not what I planned.”

“I bet it isn’t.” John was grinning savagely now, “A bit unprepared were you? That’s okay. We’ve got all the bases covered.”

“Extraction complete. Your family is out. Your brother is okay enough but we’re having one of our medics check him over. Bringing them back to base.” Casper’s voice whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “Make her bleed, mate.”

“All clear John.” Sherlock reported to his lover immediately and enjoyed the look of stunned disbelief on Moriarty’s face, and the sick expression on the twins, “Guards down, my family has been rescued, it’s just us now.”

“How?” demanded James, “How did you do this? No one knew where we were!” He glared accusingly at the twins.

“Jim, Jim, Jim.” John’s voice was pleasant, “You should have looked into Sherlock’s family a bit closer before you decided to use them as a lever to get what you wanted. Instead, you left it up to the twins, and once again, they botched it all. I’m sure you thought you’d just deal with this the way you do every situation, right Sebastian? Guess who I brought with me?”

“Fuck you, Watson.” Sebastian was doing his best to break through John’s defences but had no luck even budging the doctor. Sherlock stood back to back with his soldier and together they batted away strikes and slashes that came from all three in front of them.

“Oh, there’s a load of people anxious to see you lot.” John’s voice was heavy with rage now, “Lots of faces that might not be here today if I hadn’t arrived in time to fix what you left behind to die, especially _you_ Mary.”

“I’ve never done anything!” protested Mary, “I’ve never harmed a hair on…”

“Oh please, just because you’ve left a trail of dead bodies in your wake doesn’t mean people don’t occasionally survive. The children Mary, you remember _the children?_ They know you’re here. They’re waiting for you. Even if you manage to end Sherlock and me right here tonight you’ll never get past the children. There’s too many of them. They’re everywhere. You got sloppy in your arrogance. You should have made sure they were actually dead, instead of torturing them until they were nearly gone and then walking away. I’ve heard all the stories Mary, and I’d cut my own cock off before I let you fuck me, and I’d let Sherlock cut my throat before I’d ever consent to marry a monster like you.”

“No! It’s not true. It was Sebastian…he did all that! I tried to stop him.” Mary sobbed theatrically but did not cease her attack.

“Mary!” Sebastian sounded shocked and dismayed, “Don’t say such things!”

“Selfish right to the bone.” John spit at Mary, and it landed right on her dark blouse, the phlegm dripping down obscenely. “I’d never chosen you, Mary. I’m making a gift of you instead. Go on Sherlock, show me what you can do.”

The first thing Sherlock did was lash out with his whip. It struck Moriarty right in the temple, felling the man where he stood. John went on the full offensive instantly, incapacitating Moran with a kick to his calf, and a blow to his throat. Mary turned on her heels and ran again but Sherlock was once again far too fast for her. He managed to trip her, shoving her shoulder at the same time so she went sprawling face down. “Ah, Mary.” he purred, “I’ve been asked to make you bleed.” Sherlock yanked her head back and drew his poisoned blade across her cheek, leaving a thin red line behind, “This is going to kill you very soon, but I have a few minutes to play.”

“No! Don’t hurt her, don’t hurt her!” Moran was shouting as best he could, his ravaged throat making his cries hoarse and raspy, “Please, she’s my sister. My only family!”

“Mycroft is my brother. I haven’t seen him yet but I did hear what you did to him. All’s fair in love and war, isn’t that how the saying goes?”

 Sherlock flipped Mary over to face him and enjoyed the terror in her eyes and the way the slit on her face dripped tears of blood, “First the tongue.” Deftly he knelt on her arms to pin them, caught her tongue between his fingers, and used the poisoned blade to slice it. Her scream was loud and filled with fear. Sherlock let her tongue go, “No.” he smiled down at her.  “John told me I had to hear your lies for myself. Speak Mary. Tell me the lies you told to get to John and perhaps I’ll give you the antidote.”

Words came tumbling out, “We knew he was in town. I have a contact at head office, they don’t even know it’s me they’re talking to, but they told me John moved here. I pretended to be his sister, they told me whatever I wanted. It didn’t take James any time at all to arrange to find you for the drug cartel. He found someone inside your brother’s office that could be paid off, they knew about the cartel, and they’re in debt. It was so easy to bribe them. Killing the woman and her baby, that was a real job, but our employer allowed me to organise a grab for John.”

Sherlock examined Mary. Her words seemed to pain her, she was likely telling the truth, desperate to earn the cure she’d never get. Sherlock sliced a line along her jaw, “I don’t really believe you. I may have to peel you a bit to reach the truth.” He winked at John, “My hand isn’t as good as yours but I’m betting I can get a fair amount of her face off before she goes into cardiac arrest.”

“No!” Sebastian’s only goal now was to reach his sister but John didn’t allow him to advance even an inch. “James used his connections to find John for us. He has people everywhere.” The man in question was still sprawled on the floor where Sherlock had left him, “Don’t kill her, please. We’ll do anything you want.”

Sherlock snorted and leant in to look into Mary’s eyes curiously. Somewhat distracted by his observations Sherlock answered, “That’s not much of an offer. You _are_ doing what we want. You’re dying.”

Mary’s knee came up and struck Sherlock in the back hard enough to dislodge him but he simply rolled off her and made it to his feet while she floundered as she tried to regain her footing, “Fascinating. The toxin seems to be removing your ability to manage your voluntary muscle control.”

“What did you give her?” Sebastian sounded sick with worry but he still couldn’t get past John to reach his sister. John was moving effortlessly to keep the larger man at a distance.

“I have no idea. The children came up with the compound. I’ll analyse it later if you want but Mary isn’t going to have much time, not enough to manufacture an antidote, that’s for certain. Also, you’ll be dead as well, but I promise to do the analysis.” Without pause, he pushed the small woman over where she collapsed onto her back clumsily. Straddling her he smiled again, “You have a lot of blood on your hands Ms Morstan, and I’ve been called to wash them clean.” Calmly Sherlock drew his blade across Mary’s top, slicing a window of fabric off the top, keeping her bosom covered but her chest exposed, “Unnecessary I know, but autopsies are one of my favourite things to do, and the lines go here and here.” He carved a _Y_ into her chest and listened to Mary scream loudly. “I’m betting that my associates at the morgue will allow me to do the procedure for them, and then I can give John your heart. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it Mary? For John to have your heart? Admittedly it will be in a jar filled with embalming fluid but still, pretty romantic, no?”

“You…bastard.” Mary seemed to be having difficulty breathing. Her limbs weren’t responding either and Sherlock smiled beatifically down at her.

“There seems to be a paralytic compound involved. Very convenient I must say. Whoever came up with this formula was very motivated.” Sherlock looked Mary over. She seemed shocked and in a fair amount of pain. The red bleeding lines of his shallow cut were foaming a bit. _Interesting_. _He’d really need to speak to Casper about the poison, it was rather clever_.

Sebastian was screaming with rage now. Whatever John was doing to keep him away was out of Sherlock’s view at the moment. He trusted John to keep him safe so he could finish with Mary uninterrupted. Clearly, Moran wasn’t as good as John, or able to use his larger size and mass to his advantage against the doctor, “Oops!” said John, “I might have cut you a bit there, mate. You’re a bit…leaky.”

“What the fuck?” Sebastian sounded shocked. Cleary John was a surprise to everyone in so many ways.

Sherlock’s smile was filled with pride as he called over his shoulder, “Don’t kill him yet John, I’m not done killing Mary and I want to watch.”

“Well hurry up love, that was the axillary vein there.” _Oh. Well. Sebastian didn’t have much time then but there was a bit._

With some regret Sherlock looked down at Mary, “I had many ideas, Mary Morstan. I could have played with you for hours just to see how you reacted. I’d never once considered doing such a thing to a living person but on you, well it would be poetic justice, and John has already said I’m quite poetic.”

“Stop. Please stop.” Mary’s voice was weak. Objectively Sherlock could see she was quite comely, she’d be a lovely match for John, if Sherlock had never been in his life, but he was, and she’d never have him. “Those kids were lying. I didn’t touch them.”

“Oh, I believe you, and it’s rather interesting that you’ve offered up that particular defence since I haven’t asked anything about it.” Sherlock was earnest. He leant in, eyes narrowed, “I think you had men like John do _the touching_ for you, that’s why you wanted him, isn’t it? You wanted John to do the cutting and slicing you enjoy seeing and hearing, but not doing. What is your brother’s role in this? John told me that Sebastian procures anything his sweet sister wants, is that his only job? To pander to your immense selfishness while the pair of you laugh at the pain of others?” Her face told him everything and Sherlock sensed how the fight behind him had gone deadly silent. Sherlock could hear John and Sebastian’s laboured breathes, the zing of their blades through the air, “I imagine the children have a good measure of stories about you Mary Morstan, and I’ll hear them all. I’m sorry I can’t draw this out any longer but I have a show to watch. Here…because you _are_ twins.” Glancing at Sebastian for a cheeky moment Sherlock took the poisoned blade once again and sliced beneath Mary’s right arm, the back of the knife dragging against her rib-cage. “Now both of you are cut in the same place. You can bleed out together. No need to thank me.”

Sherlock got up, walked over to the still unconscious Moriarty, and sat on the small man’s back. He wasn’t going to do something foolish like letting him get away, but he had no reason to kill him. He might have information, and the floor was rather grotty. The man was wearing Westwood, it was a very decadent seat.

Sherlock witnessed the fury of motion as the soldiers lashed out at one another, both of them moving with precision, though Moran kept his right arm pressed tight to his side. His top had a patch of glistening damp. _Blood_. John laughed again, barely moving because Sebastian was staring at Mary with horror on his face, “He _is_ a poet, just brilliant! I just have to say Seb, Sherlock is worth _everything!_ I’ve never met anyone as perfect for me as him.” John was bragging! Sherlock grinned with his lover as John’s voice became falsely consoling, “Sorry about Mary. I know you were close. She’ll be dead soon, and it’s always terrible to lose family.”

“You bastard!” Sebastian went from a perfect standstill into a human destructive force but John had been expecting it. With ease John danced out of reach, his hips and torso moving fluidly to keep out of the Colonel’s way. Sebastian’s blade sliced through the empty air over and over again, never once touching John. The same could not be said of Moran. His back and even his thighs were dotted with blood where John had toyed with him, plunging the tip of his blade in over and over again to wound and humiliate the larger man. “You are going to _die!”_

“Someday, sure.” John was agreeable, “Just not today.” John went from games to lethal intent between breaths. Sherlock was certainly breathless. Almost like he was about to dance John stamped his feet a particular way, and small blades emerged from the front and back of his shoes. He twisted his small body and gave a roundhouse kick on an upward arc. Sebastian’s face barely had time to register surprise before John sliced across the left side of his neck before he plunged the blade in his hand to the hilt right where his clavicle met his shoulder. John jerked his knife out and stepped back quickly, “Goodbye Sebastian.”

“ _Sebastian_.” Mary’s voice was weak and filled with pain. Sherlock’s gaze went from brother to sister as they died together, Sebastian kneeling in a pool of his own blood from where John had stabbed through both his subclavian vein and artery and Mary laying in a pool of hers. Sherlock applauded. _Such precision! John must have been the most amazing surgeon before his shoulder was damaged_. “Sebas…”

There was no answer. Sherlock stood up and walked toward John, a smile on his face, his heart filled with such love. John’s face was merry, and then surprised, and then filled with warning. It all happened in a flicker of a moment. Sherlock felt a warmth behind him and realised that Moriarty had pretended to be unconscious, sacrificing the twins in order to gain the advantage, “I’m going to cut the heart out of you.” James’ voice was menacing and his hand sure. Gripping Sherlock’s wrist with the poisoned blade, Moriarty forced it up, tip parting Sherlock’s flesh easily, but grinding to a halt against Sherlock’s rib. The wound burned instantly, the poisoned edge frothing despite the shallowness of the wound.

“Sherlock!” John didn’t hesitate. Turning on his heel the doctor launched himself at Sherlock and Moriarty. At the last moment, Sherlock tilted his head to the side and allowed John’s arm to punch past his head. Moriarty died with John’s blade in his eye, but neither man watch him fall, “Sherlock! _No!_ ”

Sherlock felt his body grow numb, “The necklace. Strike it. Tipped with the antidote. Need it.” Once again John did not hesitate. His small hand slapped down onto the clawed feet, piercing Sherlock’s skin and delivering the antidote instantly. It took several long moments before Sherlock gasped in relief, the chemicals in his body beginning to cancel each other out before more damage was done. John yanked a compress bandage from one of his many pockets, “Ow.”

“Ow?” John giggled, tears filling his eyes. “Being nearly stabbed in the heart stings a bit, doesn’t it?” John was trying to be brave about seeing Sherlock bleeding beneath him, and not doing a very good job of it, “Sherlock.”

John bent low and kissed him. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his soldier’s neck and kissed him back. When it ended he looked up at John, “I’m alright John.” _It hurt like the devil and it was difficult to breathe_. “I probably won’t even need stitches.” Something warm was spreading over his chest.

“You’ll need surgery.” John’s eyes were red, “We’ve got to get you to a hospital.” _John was being silly. James had barely cut him_. Sherlock was sure it was nothing a couple of plasters couldn’t manage and he tried to sit up, “Sherlock. Don’t move sweetheart, don’t move.”

“John let me up.” _Why did he feel so heavy? The antidote had worked, hadn’t it?_

“This is more than a nick, my angel. Please love, don’t move. Don’t move.” John had tears running down his cheeks and Sherlock saw his lover’s mouth moving but couldn’t hear anything. Blinking slowly Sherlock realised the world was turning into stop-frame moments. Each blink brought a new image. Casper was there. The other children appeared. There were bright lights and John’s face, “Hang on Sherlock, please!” Blink. _So many lights_. Blink. _John?_ Blink. The whiteness faded into a floating ceiling made of aged tiles. Blink. _Bright light and white masks_. Blink. _The light_.


	16. News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins are gone but at a cost.

Sherlock was momentarily disoriented when he woke. The room stank of other people and antiseptics. The constant beeps from monitors in his room and down the hallway were annoying him, and paining his ears. Dry mouth and crusty eyes didn’t make him feel particularly good about the dull pain in his chest, nor did the raspy feel of his throat. The overhead lights made a buzzing sound that was getting on his nerves, and though he could see out the window there was nothing but grey cloudy skies to look at. The only thing that made time bearable was John and his soldier wasn’t currently there. Sherlock heard the steady beep of his monitor pick up the pace as his freshly opened eyes darted around the room and failed to take in the warm safe shape of his lover. _John? Where was John?_ Panic began to set in. What had happened?

Sherlock felt instantly dizzy and his arms flailed a little as he gripped the bed rails. _He could barely move! He was weak and defenceless! He was unprotected and alone!_ His heart rate shot through the roof and the machines around him screamed in response _,_ “ _Sherlock!_ ” John was coming in the room. He looked unshaved and pale, “Sweetheart, I’m here! I’m here love, right here!” John rushed over and Sherlock filled his nose with the unwashed but delicious scent of his lover, “Of course you’d wake up when I was in the loo! I’ve only been watching over you every minute since we got here.” John’s voice was attempting to be light and filled with humour but only succeeded in cracking and sounding desperately close to tears. “Sweetheart, relax. Don’t move, my love.”

 _Those were practically the last words he’d heard John say before he’d nearly gone toward the light!_ Sherlock tried to speak but he couldn’t. John quickly brought a glass of water to him, a convenient straw at the ready, and with a huge amount of tenderness, the doctor helped Sherlock get a sip. Sighing deeply and feeling much more grounded he sank back into his pillow, “Tell me the worst of it.” _He had to be brave, stoic even, for John’s sake_.

John smiled, “The worst of it is that you’ll have a small scar on your chest right over your heart and that you’re going to be laid up for about three weeks. At least it won’t all be in the hospital.”

“How close to dying did I come?” _Sherlock was going to take the news like a man. He’d died. He knew he’d died. He had to be courageous…for John_.

John leaned over and kissed his forehead, “Nowhere near.”

“What?” _surely that was incorrect. He’d nearly gone into the hereafter!_

“Well you couldn’t have felt very good, that’s for certain, and there _was_ a lot of blood.” Sherlock remembered the spreading warmth with some discomfort, “ _But_ a lot of it had to do with the poison on the blade and the antidote. You had an allergic reaction to some of it, but once we got that sorted you really did just need a few stitches and a large plaster.”

Sherlock felt his chest with a shaky hand. There was a large absorbent square on it, and the entire area felt tender, “Allergic reaction? What did I react to?” _He dabbled with chemicals all the time! What kind of compound could there be that caused him to respond so negatively? Even during the most dangerous of his many experiments, Sherlock had never come close to perishing!_

John frowned a little, “Casper’s a bit inventive when it comes to combining toxins. He used the sap from something called Manchineel.”

“ _Hippomane mancinella_?” Sherlock frowned. _He was lucky to be alive, and that explained the strange itchiness of the cut_ , “I thought that ingestion was necessary to be exposed to lethal levels of toxicity?”

John looked a bit muddled already, “Well…I’m not an expert in toxins but from what I gathered Casper mixed in more than just that one plant. The antidote definitely works but the Manchineel was more tenacious than Casper anticipated, what with never doing human trials, of course, how could he, but still, he didn’t calculate things exactly right but he worked with the hospital as a consultant, and they figured it out. It’s also going to complicate your recovery time because even though the blade didn’t piece your heart you are going to be very swollen and bruised. Various components of both the poison and the antidote are anti-coagulants, so that makes it more difficult as you aren’t clotting the way you’re supposed to. They’ve sorted that too but it means that you have to be on a course of medication for about three weeks to make sure there isn’t some kind of relapse.”

Sherlock looked steadily at John as he absorbed all the information. “So I _didn’t_ die,” he stated.

“No Sherlock, you did not die.” John looked happy but still upset at the same time, “This was all my fault, my angel, you were hurt because of my past.”

Weakly, Sherlock waved his arm, dismissing John’s regret, “I am likely going to endanger your life hundreds of times John. Consider this _balance_. We’re partners, aren’t we? It seems appropriate to share whatever burdens come our way.”

John’s lip quivered and his voice was almost harsh, “Burdens.” He took a deep shaky breath, “People tried to _kill_ you, Sherlock! It’s my fault! If I…”

Sherlock snorted, “I didn’t think you’d be _this_ dramatic. People are _always_ trying to kill me. That’s why I needed a partner to begin with! Certainly, I’ve gotten along fairly well without you, but even you have to admit things could go a lot worse without you by my side. Perhaps these people were from _your_ past, but believe me, John, I have enemies of my own, and they will make many attempts on my life, and now that you are with me, upon yours as well.”

John stood there blinking. Sherlock closed his eyes, suddenly very weary. Talking was taking a lot out of him, “Sherlock…I suppose, well, I guess I didn’t really think of it that way.” He was silent for a moment longer, “I’ve been feeling horribly guilty. Yes, it was brilliant at first, all sorts of fun, the fight was amazing, you were incredible…but seeing you hurt. I could smell your blood, I felt it on my hands, and on my clothes, and I wanted to die. I can’t bear that you were injured, I can’t stand seeing you marked and in pain and…Sherlock.” John leaned over the bedrail to kiss him with extreme tenderness, “I love you, my angel, don’t ever leave me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Honestly John. I didn’t die. That should be enough.”

John huffed indignantly now, “If it had been me…”

He didn’t get further than that. Sherlock’s hand was over his mouth, and the detective felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. _He could see John injured, blood leaking from a variety of wounds, broken bones, and internal damage causing his precious life to leak away. It was horrifying_. “I understand John. Please. Let’s not do this now. I don’t think I can manage quite yet.”

John leaned over again and kissed his cheek several times, each one gentle and filled with love. “Of course sweetheart, of course.” The good doctor hovered by the bed, checking all the equipment almost fanatically, reaching down and fetching the charts for Sherlock to review, and straightening the sheet over Sherlock’s body until he was tightly tucked in and as comfortable as John could make him. “Sorry. I know I’m fussing.”

Sherlock absolutely loved it. Usually, when he was in the hospital he was completely alone, even put in isolation when required _. No one came to visit him, nor did anyone worry for him during his absence. Certainly, no one fetched warm damp flannels and dry towels to wash him everywhere he wasn’t bandaged, dotting little kisses everywhere as John lifted the sheet corners just long enough to do Sherlock’s legs_ , “At least you didn’t need to have a catheter in but tell me if you need the bedpan.” Sherlock winced in embarrassment. _He’d never been so injured that he couldn’t make it to the loo on his own, or at least, use it unassisted_. A scowl was now directed at John who was averting his eyes. The soldier sighed, “Fine. Tell me when you need help getting to the bathroom.”

“Certainly John.” Sherlock accepted graciously but privately snorted. _That was going too far. Sherlock was going to have to be hurt a huge amount more than this before he’d resort to a bedpan_! His bladder screamed at him, “I suppose since you’re right here…”

John seemed almost grateful to have something to do, and with the same level of tenderness he’d shown the entire time he lowered the side rails, made sure all of Sherlock’s lines were clear, and that he was able to swing his legs over the side, and not unduly tax his body by sitting up. “John, it aches but I’m hardly split in two!” The pain in his chest was steady, ignorable, and not as bad as he would have thought. Sherlock supposed whatever sedatives and painkillers he’d been given were doing their job and muting the worst of it _. Still, he’d nearly been stabbed through the heart_ and _he’d been poisoned! No one was going to accuse him of exaggerating his need for care_. Grudgingly he said, “I’d like to lean on you at least John.” Once again his doctor seemed pleased and delighted to be able to help in some fashion, “You’re exactly the right height.”

“Lucky me, I get to be Sherlock Holmes’ human crutch.” teased John. Sherlock slung his arm over his shoulders, his soldier tight against his ribs. John was solid, strong, and steady. Sherlock felt at ease, safe, cared for, and if not for the pain, entirely relaxed. Even if he slipped, John would be strong enough to catch him easily. Sherlock would be fine. The bathroom was capacious, the hand-rails and tall toilet making it easy for Sherlock to be seated, “Call me when you’re done.” John discretely stood on the other side of the curtain and let his lover have a tiny degree of privacy. Sherlock assessed himself. He was sitting in a highly unflattering hospital gown that opened in the front, wearing some kind of mass-produced pants that were now pulled down, thick socks, and institutional green sock slippers. Peeking down awkwardly he looked at his chest and for a moment was very tempted to peel off the covering to examine it further, “Don’t touch the dressing.” warned John. _Was he psychic?_ “You’re curious Sherlock, I understand. Don’t contaminate the wound by sitting on the pot and exposing your open cut!”

Sherlock blushed faintly. _He would have done it too_. John already knew him too well, “I’m almost done.” After he’d flushed John popped right back in and helped Sherlock stand again, pulling his pants up without comment. Sherlock supposed he’d had to do much worse in his many years as a doctor, certainly, it was better that John did so rather than some nurse from the ward!  “Thank you, John.” He was sincere. _No one ever in his life had cared enough for him to help him in the bathroom, or anywhere else for that matter, not without being paid for it!_ Accepting the assistance from a professional was one thing, having friends and family make sure you hadn’t made a mess, or who would be willing to help you deal with it was an entirely different matter. With his lover, it wasn’t awkward. John was indeed nurturing, it felt very natural to have the smaller man tend to his needs, it wasn’t even slightly embarrassing. “I appreciate you so much.”

“Well I’m not letting just _anyone_ near you!” exclaimed John, “I don’t know these nurses, or the doctor, or anyone really. Seb and Mary were _excellent_ infiltrators. Who knows what kind of traps they had set up, or if their boss had a boss, or other people working for him. What about the baddies who hired them? There could be moles everywhere, we don’t know! The children are only just beginning to go over everything they’ve found. I have to be here to watch over you. I can’t allow anything more to happen to you, not if I can avoid it.”

John sounded very resolute and Sherlock’s heart beat a bit faster, but not from stress. He recognised that warmth inside himself, and his love for John was only growing. Still, there was more than just the two of them involved. “How badly injured was Mycroft?”

John sighed, “He’s pretty badly bruised. No internal injuries but he looks like hell. Moran must have really worked him over, it’s not pretty. Lestrade took personal time off to stay with him. Your parents have already left London and gone home.” John was frowning mightily as he told Sherlock the last bit but Sherlock was entirely unsurprised. They’d never once checked on him when he’d been ill as a child, leaving him in the hands of nannies or other minders, and then later on, inside institutions.

“Well, that’s a relief. Imagine having to speak to them all the time, or bear their company? No thanks. Where is Mycroft? Here in this hospital? Can I see him?” It felt very strange to be so worried about his brother after so long not giving a rat’s arse about his general condition. Everything had changed so much in a very short amount of time. Now Mycroft’s welfare was nearly as important to Sherlock as Mrs Hudson’s. Not _John_ , of course, not even Mycroft could match John in Sherlock’s regard. John was paramount.

“Yeah, we need to let the doctor in charge check you over first, he just left for rounds. You can’t just leap out of bed after surgery and begin running around like you got a paper-cut.” John tucked Sherlock securely back into bed, the sheets neatly arranged, and the angle of the bed adjusted so Sherlock was sitting comfortably to wait. John left him for only a few moments, searching for, and finding the appropriate physician himself, “Check him over.” ordered the soldier. John wasn’t subtle about his distrust, double-checking the doctor’s notes, eyeing all the machines suspiciously, and radiating menace and concern in equal measure, “Well? How soon till he can go home?”

The doctor, obviously previously threatened by John if his demeanour was anything to judge by, answered with alacrity. “Mr Holmes will need to remain for observation but only for a day or two. After that, he can leave, but on strict bed-rest. Any exertion will be extraordinarily taxing for him, and you will need to keep a constant watch for infection as well as any side-effects from the compounds he endured.” He looked relieved with John’s approving expression, “If he consents to be in a wheelchair he can go visit his brother. The other Mr Holmes isn’t as ambulatory.”

Sherlock frowned. _How badly injured was Mycroft if Sherlock could have chest surgery and be out of the hospital in only two days but his older brother couldn’t even come see him?_ “Explain.” he demanded, “What is wrong with Mycroft.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, he’s not my patient, and even if he were, patient confidentiality…” Sherlock waved him silent, and with a hard-done-by sigh, the doctor left to call a nurse to fetch a wheelchair.

Fifteen minutes later John was pushing Sherlock down the hallway, a thick woolly blanket over his knees as he rolled along inside the wheelchair. A hooked rod extended up from the back, and Sherlock’s saline bag was attached to it, “I feel ridiculous.” Sherlock felt irritable.

“Well, you look adorable, my angel.” John tousled Sherlock’s hair affectionately, “Here we are love.”

The door to the room was shut, but John gave a particular knock. Sherlock heard Lestrade call out, “Come in.”

“Secret knocks John? How juvenile.” Sherlock could hardly stop himself from rolling his eyes again.

John sounded chipper, “Can’t be too careful love. Greg agrees with me at least, that’s why he’s been sitting with Mycroft like I’ve been sitting with you. We have to protect you, and we don’t know against who yet.”

Sherlock fell silent. Mycroft was clearly asleep and Sherlock fervently hoped it was due to painkillers. His brother looked appalling. His torso was swollen everywhere, his face bruised and distorted looking, the discoloration vibrant and almost garish. If not for Lestrade perched alertly on a soft chair next to him, Sherlock might not have realised that the figure in the bed was his sibling, “Tell me everything.” Sherlock understood that he sounded demanding, but he needed to know, “How badly is he hurt?”

Lestrade exhaled gustily, “A lot of bruises but no broken bones. He looks a sight but with a bit of time, he’ll recover perfectly. Moran knew exactly how hard to hit to damage the soft tissue but not enough to shatter the bone. I guess we’re lucky he was a professional.” Lestrade looked haggard but focused, “They’re keeping him asleep so he’ll heal a bit easier. He’d be tossing and turning otherwise, there’s a lot of pain to manage.”

“Did anything happen to Mummy or Papa?” Sherlock felt obligated to asked, “Where was everyone kept?”

Lestrade frowned mightily, “Your parents…” he began, then stopped himself, “They were mad at John. As far as they’re concerned what happened to Myc is John’s fault, and maybe indirectly it is, but that’s no way for…” Lestrade looked furious, “They didn’t even come to the hospital to see if either of their boys were going to be alright! They told me to _text_ them any news, they didn’t even ask! Just issued me a command like I was one of their servants.” Lestrade took a long look at Sherlock, “All these years Sherlock, everyone thought so poorly of you. I’m here to say, _good job lad_ , you are an amazingly well-adjusted individual, especially considering what kind of environment you grew up in. No wonder you don’t like people!”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond. He couldn’t stop looking at Mycroft. John was reading his brother’s chart, his brows knitted in concern before smoothing out, “He looks like shit but he’ll be alright. Moran was going for the visual effect. He wasn’t seriously trying to hurt Mycroft, though he would have worked his way up to it. The twins probably thought they had days. That was his MO. He liked to start small and build up to more and more atrocious things.”

Sherlock glanced at John, paused, then took a harder look, “He practised on the children.”

“Lots of them, yes.” John’s jaw clenched for a moment, “Mary was a bully, and Sebastian was just a tool she used. He was bright enough, a good soldier, but he’d only listen to his sister. She liked people to be hurt, and he liked to hurt them. They worked with others many times, I’m sure more than one medical professional enjoyed her charms just long enough to do her bidding, but no one stayed alive for long. I didn’t care for the twins when we met, and everything I learned about them only reinforced that feeling. I was polite, that was it, but I guess that was enough to convince her I had feelings for her.” He snorted contemptuously, “I treated more than one of their victims without even realising it. Most of them were in comas. I’d patch them up and send them along to recuperate elsewhere. I operated in the field most of the time, rude hospitals inside tents and so forth, no place for a seriously wounded person to recover. It wasn’t until much later that I met the children and knew them for what they were. Casper was the first. He introduced me to the rest. I didn’t know they were organised until a year or so before I was shot. They were kind of a support group for each other, you know “Survivors of Twin Torture”, that style of thing.”

 A detail niggled at Sherlock, “The clothes.” John was scowling again, “I…we were supposed to be protected!”

John’s lips were pressed together angrily, the words nearly hissing out of his mouth! “Traitors!” he took a deep breath, “I thought Casper was going to lose it when he saw your shirt. He was shocked, utterly shocked. This should never have happened Sherlock.”

Sherlock regarded his lover. “One or more of the children worked with the twins. Insiders. That’s how they knew to find you so easily. That’s how they understood which client to accept. You’re being watched, and someone sold you out.”

John nodded, “Casper is looking for whoever it is. He said he had an idea. There’s only a few of them who did R and D, and even less who worked on the defensive clothing. We were both given untreated garments.” Sherlock’s fingers tightened onto the arms of his wheelchair. _John had been in great danger! Sebastian’s blades would have_ …he couldn’t finish the thought. “Good thing you bought me those shoes. Yours might not have worked as planned either. We were set up.”

“How do you know it’s not Casper?” asked Greg, “I’m not accusing him, I’m just wondering.”

John pulled a chair over and sat next to Sherlock, peeling his fingers off his armrest and lacing them together with his own, “Casper was the first child to tell me about the twins. He was so young then, barely old enough to be in the army properly. Mary had done her usual tricks, and Sebastian had played with Casper. They left him for dead in the desert. He had amnesia for a long time, and by the time he’d gotten his memories back he’d healed, they’d scarpered, and there was no one to tell.”

“No one except the doctor who saved his life.” John nodded, “I thought you didn’t see them after your initial interaction?”

John shrugged, “Well some of them, certainly. Casper was unusual. He searched me out after he got better, and kept in touch. I didn’t know he was looking for all the others that Mary and Sebastian had hurt. What’s weird was how many of them were under my personal care, but in retrospect, I think that Casper and the others were making sure _I_ was the doctor closest to wherever Mary and Seb were spotted. I moved around the countryside a great deal, and I didn’t question orders. The children are all brilliant at tech, it would have been possible for them to direct where I was being sent, or influence it at least. They trusted me. I trusted them.”

John looked grey now but Sherlock understood, “One of those you trusted has lied to you.” John nodded silently, “Someone you would know, and thought you knew very well.” John nodded again. “I’m sorry.”

John sniffed sadly, “It’s not your fault Sherlock. It doesn’t feel very good but whoever it is, well, they’re in for a hell of a time once Casper and the rest sort it out. The children…” he paused and sighed again, “The children are damaged. All of them are brilliant, but all of them are lacking discretion in certain areas, most of them were born without the ability to be...” he stopped himself again, “When they catch the traitor, I can’t see that person surviving very long, or being kept in one piece. Mary and Sebastian were wickedly cruel. Some of the torture included _removing_ things…lots of them would be more than capable of doing the same.” John looked very sad, “They’re just kids. They shouldn’t _know_ things like that. They shouldn’t have had to _endure_ things like that.”

“At least the twins are dead now, and their employer.” Sherlock tried to comfort his lover. Both John and Greg had the same reaction though, their eyes cutting away almost nervously. Sherlock was the one frowning, “What is it?”

Neither man spoke, but eventually, Lestrade said, “Moriarty’s body never made it to the morgue.”

“What?” Sherlock stared at both men, his gaze going back and forth, “How is that possible?”

Lestrade shrugged and looked angry, “We don’t know. John and I were here with you and Myc. The children saw the bodies loaded up to be taken to the morgue. Only the twins arrived. The drivers have been questioned but they swear they have no idea. Someone is lying, they have to be lying, but we couldn’t leave the two of you alone and exposed! We had to stay here.”

Sherlock couldn’t think. He felt incredibly wearied now, and suddenly John was standing, “This is too much for you. Gods, what was I thinking? We should have kept you in bed, and out of this. You’re too weak right now to be stressed further.”

“Don’t be foolish John. I needed to see Mycroft.” The machines beeped soothingly and Sherlock allowed himself to look his brother over once again. “He’ll be alright, you said so.” His voice was small and broken, he hadn’t meant to reveal so much emotion.

“Yeah, he’ll be alright. Greg and I will make sure of it.” John was tender and gentle.

Greg nodded, “I’m not leaving him for a minute. Don’t you worry Sherlock, Anthea has people all throughout the hospital. I’m on leave. I won’t let him become vulnerable.” The DI reached out and stroked a finger over Mycroft’s still hand, “I’ll protect him.”

Sherlock nodded. He trusted Lestrade to watch over his brother. He was relieved as well. _At least Mycroft had someone in his life he could depend on no matter what._ It must feel as strange to him as it did to Sherlock. John was wheeling him back to his room, checking everywhere before reinstalling the detective onto the bed. John inspected all the equipment suspiciously, then reattached everything the way it was supposed to be. The machines resumed beeping, and Sherlock sighed. “Close your eyes, my love. You need to sleep.”

“I can’t.” _How could he sleep? They were in danger, a body was missing, his brother was hurt, there were one or more traitors running around, he was injured, there was so much to think about_.

John stood by the bed and reached up. His fingers scratched through Sherlock’s curls comfortingly, and his other hand brushed over Sherlock’s eyes to close the lids, “I’m here Sherlock. Please sleep.” Sherlock obediently kept his eyes shut but his mind wouldn’t shut off. The _scritch scritch scritch_ of John’s fingers on his scalp was distracting but in a comforting sort of way. John used a thumb to rub Sherlock’s temple as well, “Sleep.”

Sherlock slept.


	17. Let the Healing Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock isn't as hurt as he thought he was so now all he needs to do is heal. Good thing he has a doctor on hand.

Two weeks had gone by and Sherlock missed being at 221 B Baker Street. They were instead at Mycroft’s, and Sherlock was trying not to be bored, though his meds made him sleep a great deal, and that did eat up a huge amount of time. John wasn’t letting him do anything that was more strenuous than surfing the internet on their new laptop or visiting with his brother. Instead, the doctor fussed over the detective, checking the progress of his healing wound several times more than necessary, examining Sherlock’s eyes with a penlight, and ignoring his protests that he felt perfectly fine. “Pay attention to my brother instead, for goodness sakes John!” Mycroft was still a bit swollen all over, and several shades of yellow, brown, and red. His face wasn’t so puffy at least, and he could talk somewhat.

“I check your brother nearly as often as I check you, but since he’s not the keeper of my heart, I’m not quite so concerned about his well-being.” _Damn John and his romantic declarations!_ Sherlock softened yet again and silently promised himself to be patient, a promise that wore off quickly despite how many times he made it to himself.  He still sighed though, to let John know he was displeased with the remonstrance, and John grew still. “The more you rest, the faster you heal. The faster you heal; the sooner we can get to work on figuring this problem out. If you decide to mess about and entertain yourself in some _active_ way, you risk prolonging the healing process and encourage complications, complications, may I remind you, that you are still very much at risk at encountering. Against my better judgement, we are no longer inside the hospital. While I agree that it is decidedly _not safe_ there, at least there was equipment, medications, other specialists, people I know who command the sort of medical expertise I might require should you, the love of my life, suddenly fall victim to an unexpected side effect from the poisons that are still leaving your system.”

John’s voice had been clipped and concise all the way through his speech, his eyes sharp and nearly piercing as the doctor kept his gaze fixed on Sherlock. Now Sherlock felt guilty and penitent together, “I’m sorry John. Perhaps I’ll continue reading up on the toxicology reports regarding each component. The children were kind enough to install a number of reports on my tablet.” Without another word, he settled himself back onto the cushions of the window seat and bent his head over the device to begin reading. _John was entirely correct. It would save time to control himself now instead of being an impatient fool who caused not only harm to himself but fear and concern in the people who cared for him, and whom he cared for_.

John was the one sighing now, and the doctor sat beside Sherlock, leaning a bit over him to kiss his cheeks in silent apology for snapping, “What if I let you set up my blog. I can begin writing about your past cases. You know I don’t know how to do anything fancy like that.”

“We can’t publish anything until we have a secure IP to…” John looked confused already and Sherlock stopped, “The children can help me. Good idea John. It won’t take them long to set up a web host for you.”

“A what?”

“Someplace to show your stories. I’ll make it very straightforward.”

John looked pleased, “Thanks love. When Casper comes over I’ll see if he can fix it so you can look at the information they have available, I bet there’s a lot, and I bet it’s full of all sorts of things you’d be interested in.”

 _Well, that was a lovely offer_. Sherlock beamed at his lover. _If he had something like that to access, then he’d be content to sit perfectly still for days if he had to_. _He could begin looking for whoever had secreted away Moriarty’s body, surely John wouldn’t complain about that_. “Perfect John.”

Sherlock looked forward to seeing Casper. The young man reminded him of John for so many reasons. There was so much anger there, but unlike the doctor, Casper wasn’t able to simply pack it away for later. He wore it openly, at least when he was here, and he was every bit as dangerous as Sherlock’s soldier. He was so much younger than John, but he had a natural talent for causing physical damage. Casper was very careful how he treated other people, he knew how he was unintentionally capable of hurting someone by being careless so he practised being gentle. Eventually, he’d be like John, sweet and affable, an ordinary man just making his way through life. Right now Casper was raw material, brilliant, broken, savage, calculating, and remorseless. Sherlock liked him very much and Casper liked him too. The children adored John, they’d do anything for him, and that fact alone broke Casper’s, heart.

The traitor had yet to be found, and they said nothing to any of the others. Only Casper knew and silently he hunted. He came to see John every single day, locking himself in a room with the doctor to report. Sherlock was incredibly curious of what they spoke of, and after their first meeting had questioned John angrily, demanding to know why he was being excluded, “These secrets aren’t yours to hear Sherlock!” John was firm, “We are talking about things no one else has the right to know. Casper and I are sifting through everything we know in common, and when we both decide it’s something worthy, we will definitely be sharing it with you. What you don’t get to hear are the stories from all the other children, they rely on my discretion, my ability to carry their secrets to my grave, just as you can rely on me to do the same. Don’t make me compromise my honour just to satisfy your curiosity, Sherlock. I will tell you everything that is mine to tell, but not a word of anyone else.”

Sherlock was humbled yet again by John’s natural goodness. He’d clearly developed rules for himself long ago, and he was rightly unwilling to break them. Sherlock loved his soldier far too much to even consider wounding him by insisting on being indulged. He trusted John to tell him everything he needed to know when he needed to know it. John had already told Sherlock many stories, he had a treasure trove of tales to share, and Sherlock was learning that first most important lesson every single day, _patience_. Now, as he had then, Sherlock felt that the love his soldier gave him unstintingly more than compensated for whatever questions he might have about the children and their past. He began working on John’s blog, keeping it neat and presentable, making sure all the steps were as basic as he could manage. John was definitely improving but it was relative. He’d never be able to manage an actual keyboard any faster than he managed to text in his mobile. Sherlock smiled to himself and made sure as many features were automated as possible, and made a mental note to go over John’s postings to make sure mistakes and errors were at a minimum without actually changing a thing about his lover’s stories. It kept him busy for nearly an hour and then time weighed heavily on his hands.

His chest was healing well despite John’s worries though it itched all the time. Sherlock kept himself from scratching it because John could magically tell if he’d so much as pressed a finger to the bandage and would lecture him. Instead, he stretched carefully and stood. He was lucky he was ambulatory, and with care, he made his way from the sitting room to Mycroft’s room to sit with his brother. Mycroft slept most of the time. His muscles were deeply bruised and the pain medications he was taking made him endlessly drowsy. John got him moving around when he was awake though, to encourage circulation, and promote healing. Sherlock said nothing at all if Mycroft was slumbering but sometimes he was awake, and then they’d speak on all manner of topics, “Brother?”

“Yes Mycroft, it’s me.” He was awake and Sherlock was glad of it. Lestrade wasn’t there. He was at work, pretending everything was fine, and that he wasn’t watching for enemies everywhere he went. Anthea at least kept her eyes on the DI. No one was going to take him away without a huge amount of effort which definitely would be noticed by the sorts of people Mycroft and Anthea employed.

“Where is John?”

“He’s meeting with Casper again.” Both of them sighed, unaccustomed to being kept out of the loop, “It’s for the best.” said Sherlock.

“I know it is, little brother.” Mycroft felt silent, “Is John resting?”

Now Sherlock was the one unwilling to speak. John was barely sleeping, and when he did it was fitful and broken. The soldier was clearly unwilling to relinquish his guard over either brother and fought against his needs in order to be awake. Still, there wasn’t any use in lying to Mycroft, “No.”

“I will have Gregory speak to him.” Sherlock nodded. It was a good choice. Lestrade and John got on almost revoltingly well. They spoke the same language, they were both warriors in their hearts, fair, just, and brutal when necessary. Sherlock sat back into the extra firm chair John had provided for him, so as not to strain the stitches still healing in his chest. It ached all the time, and it itched too, but Sherlock was practising self-control by not touching it and ignoring his transport's requests for a good scratch. “I feel better today.”

Sherlock glanced at his brother. He noted that the swelling was continuing to decrease at a steady pace, but that he still looked a bit lumpy where he was bruised, which was everywhere except his legs. Moran had struck Mycroft with a great deal of professionalism, he’d known exactly how to best hurt him without breaking a single thing. Still, the bruising was very deep, and for a while, John worried that his ability to breathe would be compromised and that blood clots would be a real risk. So far nothing dramatic had happened. Sherlock wasn’t sure how Mycroft dealt with the passage of time but he didn’t seem to be overly troubled with how long it was all taking, “I’m glad.”

They played guessing games then. Lestrade had gone through his cold-case files and brought them several items to work on. They took turns pulling random articles from a sack, and after they were done Sherlock would read the case reports to see how accurate their guesses were. While they were at it, they solved several of the cases, making notes for Lestrade to use later on when he had time. John arrived. He looked grim, so neither Sherlock nor Mycroft asked him about his meeting with Casper. Instead, both men silently drink their tea down. Lunch would be soon. Mycroft was at least able to eat regular food but Sherlock was on a special diet that helped him deal with the traces of poisons still in his body.

When they were done John checked them both over again, making notes on their charts and making the decision to change Sherlock’s bandages later on that day. “At least you don’t have to shave your chest,” teased Mycroft, making John snort with laughter.

There was nothing for Sherlock to say. He wasn’t a hairy man; he couldn’t help that. “I _did_ need to be shaved, it’s growing back,” he replied with dignity.

“All four strands can’t possibly be getting in the way.” At least Mycroft was enjoying himself but Sherlock huffed anyway, pretending to take great offence at his brother who merely laughed with John.

“He’s perfect the way he is Mycroft, stop it.” admonished John with a giggle and both brothers smiled because the doctor was in good humour again.

Sherlock didn’t want to ask but he couldn’t help himself, “Any news?” John’s bottom lip twitched a bit, as did the little finger on his left hand. He was rigid for a moment and then he nodded. Sherlock reached out and lay his hand on John’s arm, “Who was it?”

John slumped into a chair and looked moodily out the window before he answered, “You didn’t meet them. A boy. Aldwin.” _Trust. The boy’s name meant to trust, the thing he had fooled John and all the children into doing_. Sherlock’s fingers squeezed John’s leg a bit tighter and John’s hand covered his. “He was found in the desert, much like Casper. He was missing several patches of skin, and part of his scalp. He nearly lost his leg but I managed to…” John fell silent, going over his memories, his lips now pressed together. “He told us that he’d been taken by a man and a woman. We knew it was the twins. Maybe it was, maybe it was someone different but whatever happened we can’t know that anything we’ve learned from Aldwin was truth or not. Clearly, he’s a good liar, he’s had us all fooled.”

“Could he be the victim of blackmail? Perhaps they have someone he cares about or something he needs?” Mycroft’s voice was gentle.

John sighed and shrugged, “It almost doesn’t matter now. He’s had plenty of chances to come clean. He’s involved with every level of operations that the children run or have been a part of. Everyone liked him and now…this is going to cause mistrust and discord among the rest, even if they find out everything there is to know about Aldwin. No one is going to ever fully believe anyone ever again, and perhaps that was the goal.” John looked heart-sick and it made Sherlock’s heart ache in sympathy, “He’s just a kid. He would have barely been old enough to be in the army when he was taken, he would have had no way to resist them if they’d tortured him, or conditioned him. He would have been helpless but now look, he’s a danger to all of us, to all of them.”

“What will happen?” Sherlock needed to know.

“Casper will talk to Gustave. Gustave will talk to another, that person will talk to another and so on until all the children know. Aldwin will be taken and…the…children will…they will…deal with him.” John was pale now, his fists curled up so tight that his fingers were bloodless. “Casper says there is more to this than just one traitor. There was an endgame we know nothing about. When they take Aldwin they are going to find out everything they can.”

“After that? What happens to him after that?” Mycroft’s voice was still gentle.

John kept looking out the window. “There won’t be anything left of him after that. Aldwin and _all_ his parts will disappear, he will be erased from everywhere he can be erased from, and he will simply be gone like he didn’t even exist.”

Sherlock couldn’t bear the look on John’s face. He was so sad. He looked as if he’d lost something precious and Sherlock supposed that he had. John loved the children. They were his little family, kids that he’d rescued and healed, that he’d watched over and who had watched over him. “My cut itches.” Sherlock made his voice querulous and annoyed.

John reacted instantly, “I’d better look at it sweetheart. We can’t risk an infection.” John helped him up and took him back to his room and made Sherlock lay back on the bed. He opened Sherlock’s pyjama top and very carefully peeled off the dressings that protected it. With professionalism John inspected it closely, palpating the area around it, making more notes in Sherlock’s chart before cleaning the region carefully, disinfecting everything, and then very gently re-covering it. “Better?”

“Ye, John.” Sherlock tugged at John’s arm and made him come close enough for a kiss, “Lay beside me.” he ordered.

John resisted for only a minute before he complied. He placed his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, letting Sherlock’s arm hold him comfortably snug. They stayed there silently together for a long time, Sherlock quietly comforting his lover as John worked his way through his distress and regrets, “I didn’t know.”

“I know, my love.” In no way could any of this be construed as John’s fault. He’d done his best in every instance, only tried to help when his nature was to hurt, who cared when his heart was not designed to give a fig and had shaped himself into an honourable astonishing amazing man when he could have been as low and diabolical as the twins had been. He’d set a high standard for himself and it clearly disturbed the doctor to learn that not everyone was capable of doing so. John was still capable of blaming himself and Sherlock knew that’s exactly what his lover was doing, “Stop John.”

“I should have known.”

“Know what? That _Mary_ wanted to do this? That _Aldwin_ was part of it? That _Moriarty_ would be the one to hire the twins? That someone would steal his body, or that he might be alive?” Sherlock’s voice was hard, “Should _I_ have known these things?”

“How could you?” John sounded shocked.

“How could _you_?” retorted Sherlock angrily, “How could you know any of these things?” John was silent for a long time, his body tense all over again, but eventually, he relaxed as he accepted the truth, “You could not have known, nor could I. We can only deal with what _is_ , not what _might_ have been.” John was angry, Sherlock could tell. He was angry because he wasn’t prescient. He was angry because he hadn’t protected Sherlock from becoming injured, and because he’d trusted someone who had betrayed him. He was furious because someone who began innocently had either chosen to be on the side of the twins or had been compelled, leaving no clue to let anyone know they needed help. He was enraged because other people he loved and trusted were about to torture and kill someone they’d all loved and trusted. John was tearing himself apart silently because they had an unseen enemy out there, someone who wasn’t Aldwin, someone who worked with the twins and Moriarty, and that someone would be coming for them. They had no idea where or when or even how, and John didn’t want to admit that he wasn’t going to be able to protect Sherlock the way he wanted to. “It will be great fun; I’m looking forward to it,” he said lightly.

“What?” John sounded shocked, “Looking forward to it? Sherlock, you have no idea…”

“No, I don’t. Neither to do you. Neither of us has a clue. It’s a _mystery_ , John! A tangled messy deadly possibly world-damaging mystery! I am still healing. Mycroft is weeks away from being recovered. Lestrade is completely out of his depth. The children haven’t dealt with Aldwin yet. We can’t rush forward. We have to wait, and I for one am looking forward to unravelling every twisted thread.” Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head.

“You’re insane.”

“So are you.”

“No, I mean it’s crazy.”

“What’s your point?”

“Sherlock!”

“John!” Sherlock kissed the top of his soldier’s head again, “This is _our life_ , John. We will have enemies. We will have problems. We will get hurt. People we know will be hurt. None of that can stop us though. We have puzzles to solve because no one else can solve them. If we hide or give up, or worse, don’t even try, then _other_ people still get hurt, more people, innocent people, people who have no business whatever being hurt by the sorts of people you and I can bring down. That’s pretty much it.”

John was quiet for a very long time so Sherlock let him think things over at his own speed. Instead, he lay there and enjoyed the smell of John, the heat of his body, and how perfectly he fit against him. Eventually, John’s body relaxed and he snuggled carefully up to Sherlock, his arm stretching across the flatness of Sherlock’s abdomen and hugged him closer still, “You’re right. I guess I just,” John paused and sighed, “I guess this really is our life. If it's not _this_ problem, it will be _another_ problem.” Sherlock nodded and John sighed again. “I guess I’ll have to learn how to relax about some things.”

 _Not everything!_ Sherlock tested something out, “I’m thirsty.” John climbed right out of bed, fetched a glass of ice water from the pitcher that was waiting, and put it right into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock smiled a bit and took a big drink before handing the glass back, “Thank you, John.”

“Can I get you anything else? Are you hungry? How does the new dressing feel? Too tight?” John fussed over Sherlock, straightening out his pyjamas where they’d bunched, fluffing up his pillow, drawing a lap blanket over his legs, and even adjusting the curtain just in case the light in the room was hurtful to Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock lay there and wallowed in the attention, soaking it all in almost gleefully. He’d never get enough of this. Still, he wasn’t going to abuse it even if he loved it, “I’m good for now John, that was more than adequate.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble to pop over to the kitchen. I have those little sausage rolls you like.” _Oh. Well, those were delicious_ , “Mycroft probably needs to eat too, if you don’t want the rolls we could have soup.”

Sherlock wasn’t very hungry but John’s soups were amazingly delicious and he was technically an invalid who was in medical care, “We have lunch with Mycroft then. What kind of soup?”

“Beef and veg.” Sherlock smiled. John’s soups were astonishing. There simply wasn’t anything John couldn’t make into a delicious meal, _despite_ their healthful properties. Of course, Mycroft’s house was very well stocked so John managed to make something different every time. “I even used those little animal noodles you like.”

Now Sherlock flushed. He’d been partially sedated the first time John had made him noodle soup, and the painkillers had also done a bit of a number on his perceptions, so John had spent a very amusing lunch-hour listening to Sherlock deduce each noodle, telling its little life story, and giving them all a special place to live on the rim of his bowl, saved for last because he still ate every bite. John helped him back up and sat him with Mycroft before going off to fetch them lunch. They whiled away the time until lunch when John wheeled in a large cart that had their meals and a new carafe of tea. After they ate Sherlock eyed Mycroft who eyed Sherlock in return, both brothers giving each other looks until John finally said, “What is it?”

“Sherlock has something to tell you.” _Damn you Mycroft!_

“Sherlock?” asked John with a worried tone.

“It’s about our enemies. Mycroft and I have an idea for catching them out.”

“We don’t even know who they are.” said John, “Not yet at least.”

“But we will. I know you don’t want to think about it but the children won’t be dealing with Aldwin forever. Soon enough we’re going to hear from Casper, and after that, we’re going to begin searching. That seems like it will take a very long time so Mycroft and I had an idea about how to lessen the time involved.”

“What? How? What do you want to do?”

Sherlock looked at his lover, “We want to set a trap. Let them come to us.”

“A trap? What kind of trap? When? How?” John looked back and forth between them, “So?”

Mycroft shifted himself, “Weddings. _Our_ weddings.”

John frowned. “When I marry Sherlock it’s going to be to declare to everyone our undying commitment to one another, _not_ to catch a bunch of criminals.”

“We can do both, John. Who else would we want to take our vows in front of? Strangers? Our enemies, as well as our friends, can bear witness. If we get to solve a mystery whilst doing so, then all the better.” Sherlock watched John closely. He was thinking about it and Sherlock could practically read his thoughts by the expressions on his face.

“The children will be there. Your army friends will be there. Mycroft’s people will be there. It’s the best scenario for drawing in our enemy. They’ll think we’re entirely preoccupied with the event du jour.”

“You mean our eternal vows to one another?” John still looked disgruntled.

“Well, it’s not set in stone John. We still have to ask Lestrade.”

Now Mycroft interjected, “Think about it, John. We have many enemies between us. A wedding will be an almost irresistible place for them to strike at us.”

“Well, that’s true enough.” John’s expression didn’t clear up, “I guess this just wasn’t how I pictured our wedding. I mean, it’s a wedding, not a job.”

“It will be unique and unforgettable.” offered Sherlock with a hopeful smile, “You might get to kick someone around, perhaps even kill someone.”

John brightened up, “Well there’s that.” He sat quietly for a few minutes more before heaving a great sigh, “Fine, if Greg agrees I’ll do it _but_ both you and Mycroft have to be in perfect health, and I get to oversee all the security measures.”

“That seems very acceptable John.” _Indeed it was_. Sherlock and Mycroft nodded to one another. Sherlock was positive Greg would agree so now all they needed to do was wait for the DI to make it home so they could discuss it with him.

“When will you hear from the children about their traitor?” John looked away and glared at the wall when Mycroft asked his question.

“When they’re done. They won’t tell me anything about it for now. They’re independents.” Of course they were. Sherlock was now the one sighing. He knew John was very hurt by the betrayal and that wound would not heal quickly.

“I need to lay down John. I’m very tired right now.” John was instantly solicitous, helping Sherlock to their room where he got Sherlock into bed and suffered to lay beside his lover, ostensibly to help Sherlock fall asleep. “Stay with me, John. I need you here.” Sherlock got John to arrange himself against his shoulder again, hugging him tightly, “I love you, John. We’ll figure all of this out, together.”

“You and Mycroft seem to be figuring it all out just fine without me.” he said with some bitterness.

“Nonsense, my love. We got the idea, certainly, but you must help us with the greater plan. After all, _you_ are the soldier, Mycroft is the _diplomat_. In this instance, you both are far superior to me in skill.” _That was just the truth. Sherlock wasn’t a tactician in the same way. He could see larger patterns, discern hidden truths, but he wasn’t a general or a warrior. He knew enough to know that John had his strengths, and they would be fools not to use them_.

John protested, “You’re _both_ geniuses, and Greg is a DI. I’m just…”

Sherlock covered John’s mouth with his hand, “Don’t ever say you are _just_ anything. You are incredible. You are so amazing entire countries love you. I am very aware of how lucky I am to have earned your love. Do not attempt to demean or belittle yourself, not for any reason.”

John looked humbled, “I do love you.”

“I know John. Now be quiet and let me rest.” John fell silent but his fingers tangled with Sherlock’s, and they rested their linked hands right below Sherlock’s bandage. Sherlock kissed John’s head again, and enjoyed his presence once more, “Wake me when Lestrade gets home.”

“Okay my love, sleep angel. Sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note
> 
> I've had a house-guest over the holidays who is ONLY just ending their visit. I love my friend but it's been a nightmare on my ability to write in that they seem to want to "talk" face-to-face and "hang-out" all the bloody time, and then asking invasive questions like "What are you writing." really knocks the winds out of a body's sails.
> 
> More as soon as the nightmare ends. My apologies and regrets over the endless delays.
> 
> Additional:
> 
> January 18, 2016
> 
> Currently brain-dead and incapable of writing. Doing my best to get myself back on track but nothing is working. Your patience is appreciated.
> 
> d


	18. Plans and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have gone into hiding, preparing for what comes next in their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MyFirstIsTheFourth made this update possible by re-reading the ENTIRE fic, pointing out mistakes/plotholes/crimes against grammar, and many other helpful things. She hardly ragged on me at all about how long it took to get this update out and is patiently coaxing me through completing the final chapter now that we've tracked down all the loose ends. My eternal gratitude to her endless support.

Time went by both fast and slow. The children uncovered a great deal of information and offered all of it to Sherlock who nearly drowned in the deluge, but John was grateful that he had something to occupy him. It was difficult to be patient while he tried to heal because his transport was being _so_ stubborn. It went at its own pace and no faster, all his previous attempts at self-discipline and control had clearly been for nothing. Even Mycroft seemed to be gaining on him as his swelling went down, and one at a time his bruises faded away, but the ache in Sherlock’s chest barely subsided. The toxins and even the antidote had played merry hell with his internal chemistry. There were tiny pockets of the silly-buggers that continued to emerge and plague him with new itches and jags of pains. It was annoying and occasionally embarrassing, like the day his bottom itched so much that he couldn’t rest. Thankfully no particular outbreak lasted for more than a few hours, but still, it wore at Sherlock’s nerves until he was at his limit. John was tempted many times to return Sherlock to the hospital, but all the reasons they’d departed as soon as possible in the first place remained valid.

After a full month, Casper arrived with a small pot of salve. It was white, creamy, odourless, and when spread on _generously_ it negated all the irritants in one go. Sherlock nearly cried with relief as the nagging annoyances faded away, “Apply three times a day until the scar is merely pink.” John inspected the cut closely, watching nearly as intently as Sherlock as the redness subsided a tiny bit. The whole area felt dead but mercifully no longer aggravating as it had been for so many weeks. The temporary numbness was more than a fair trade. Sherlock welcomed it.

Once he rested, sleeping for nearly fourteen hours in one go, he realised how tiring it had been to keep himself from scratching. The constant urge to touch the wound had dogged him day and night, the incessant ache had caused the tension in the rest of his body to grow worse with each passing hour. Now he was entirely relieved, and after another of John’s amazing lunches, Sherlock was astounded to discover that he’d fallen asleep napping the entire afternoon away _again_ while John met with his young friend. He’d never slept so much without the aid of pharmaceuticals, legal or otherwise. It was early evening before John shook him awake, and his stomach felt empty again. “Sherlock, dinner.”

While they dined John filled Sherlock and Mycroft in, “The good news is that it _isn’t_ Aldwin, at least, it’s not the Aldwin we know. Fake Aldwin wasn’t easy to get information from but Casper and the rest, well, they have their methods. They broke him after a week, and have spent all this time mining for as much information as they could manage. It’s not pretty. I’m not getting into details, but he’s devoted to whomever it was that conditioned him. He does his job, and if he’s told to do something, he’ll do it. He was told to spy on the children so that’s what he did. He’s the real Aldwin’s _identical_ twin. He really thinks he is his brother but there are flaws in the training. The children are all close to one another, details were incorrectly recalled during cross-examinations, they know it’s not the Aldwin they went to war with, so now it’s just a matter of checking enough to know how long _our_ Aldwin has been missing. Who knows how or when the twins got hold of this poor lad, or how they went about conditioning him so completely.”

“Where is he now?” Sherlock asked after his request to interview Second Aldwin and had been firmly, if gently, denied. It frustrated him but he had no sway over the children or how they managed their internal problems, “They’re sure they’ve gotten everything?”

John was upset again and Sherlock immediately regretted his question. He came up behind his doctor, wrapping his arms tightly around the small man and squeezing him comfortingly. After a moment. John said, “We don’t know where the real Aldwin is but the children are searching. Yes, they are certain they got all the information available from this boy. They’re very thorough.” They ate in silence for several minutes but John eventually continued, “There are two possibilities. First, the person we saw with Mary and Seb is still alive somehow, or second, that _that_ person was a double or decoy, and the _actual_ Moriarty is functioning behind-the-scenes somewhere. We need to discover which.”

Sherlock considered this, “Mary called him _James_ , and she seemed to react instinctively to his presence. Sebastian also told his sister to go to that man for protection.”

John was nodding, “True. I mentioned that to the children so the consensus is that he was the real James Moriarty. If he somehow survived me putting a knife in his eye, he’s got to be planning on retaliating. The children have been examining every clue they wrung from the false Aldwin about how our organisation was penetrated and they’ve come up with some surprising back-doors.”

“Back-doors, that’s good?” Sherlock looked sharply at his lover.

“Well, the way they explained it, every single path into our network is a two-way street that they’ve followed right back out to the perpetrators, only _these_ kids are completely brill and no one has noticed their arrival.” The children were extraordinarily skilled with technology, almost magical in fact. Their knowledge was far beyond Sherlock’s abilities and even outstripped Mycroft by a substantial degree.

“Have the children expunged all the threats from their organisation?” Mycroft looked at John, “Young Aldwin was the only internal leak?”

John nodded, “They’re clean. Aldwin was the only mole they managed to sneak in, all the back-doors he opened remain so but now they’re being fed only what the children want them to know, and every leak is now monitored by them. That’s why we’re fairly certain that Moriarty is still alive. Look.”

John handed Sherlock and Mycroft a report. The children had cobbled together grainy and difficult to discern images from CCTV cameras all over the city; time and again a face or profile showed up that was disturbingly familiar. Examining it closer did no good, even the best programs could only extract so much information, and the person was obviously aware of where the cameras were located, managing to walk in such a way as to keep his face obscured. If Moriarty had survived, he was remarkably active for a man who should be miraculously recovering from being stabbed in the brain. Sherlock sighed because John looked disgruntled now. A distraction was in order. “How are the wedding plans coming along?”

For the sake of appearances, Mycroft was the one in charge of their dual wedding. He’d made it as lavish and decadent as he could manage and by dint of dropping hints to the media about _where_ and _when_ he had whipped up a fury of speculation in the general population about all the supposedly hidden details. So clever was he that he managed to make it seem that no-one should know anything at all when in fact nearly everything they ‘hid’ was being posted on websites and blogs all over the city. The weddings were the worst kept secret in the city. “So far the baker, the venue provider, and even the company bringing in the flowers have all been compromised. All of them have accepted bribes from unnamed sources in order to take on replacement staff as well as dispense information about what we’re up to.”

 _Spies and lies went hand in hand_. Sherlock and John sat back and exhaled. John looked resigned, “So pretty much what we expected.” It was a little disappointing but it was also something they’d prepared for.

“All we are waiting for is the breach in our security system, and possibly even the tailor, then we’ll be set.” Mycroft sounded calm as if he expected nothing else in the world than to find that everyone around him had been bought and paid for several times. Sherlock had felt much the same for most of his life, until he’d met Mrs Hudson, of course. She showed him that there were good people in the world, regardless of circumstances, and in retrospect, Sherlock realised that her lessons had helped him be able to love John.

Lestrade walked in, “Sorry I’m late, you know how it goes. So, update?” The DI leant in and kissed Mycroft on the cheek then sat beside his fiancé, dishing himself a huge plateful of food and beginning to eat quickly. Mycroft poured a splash of wine in a glass for his partner while he gave him a summary of their conversation. Lestrade shrugged, “Fuckers, all of them.”

Mycroft sighed and looked glum, “I know.”

Lestrade set his fork down, “It’s not stopping us though, right? Hell or high-water, that’s the deal.”

Mycroft smiled again, “Indeed.”

Lestrade went back to eating, “Everyone misses Sherlock down at the station, and by everyone, I mean no one except me. Anderson is convinced he’s nearly as good as Sherlock now and Donovan is gunning for my job. It’s a fucking nightmare, not that she wouldn’t be good at it, but it does make having coffee with everyone a bit tense! Dimmock might be helping Sally with the Commissioner and all of it is a sack of shit just waiting for a match.”

Sherlock fumed silently. _Anderson could be somewhat forgiven. He’d been unstable right from the start, and upon learning that Sherlock was indeed alive, he’d cracked like an egg. Donovan was definitely skilled enough to make a challenge. He didn’t have to like her to admit that. She worked hard, dug deep, and made fewer mistakes than the average copper did. She clearly felt she could do a better job than Lestrade, and what better time to make a bid for promotion? Dimmock wasn’t a surprise, he was opportunistic, predictably so_. “Bring your cold case files home., l thought Mycroft and I already went through your current cases.”

Lestrade laughed, “You did. Don’t worry lad, I’m not worried. The commissioner will listen to Sally then inspect her case-log, compare it to mine, and do exactly the same thing he’s done every time someone tries this. It’s not her fault, I’ve just been on the job longer. She’s hardly the first and I’ve still got my position. I know it pisses her off to never get promoted but I’m not risking my work reputation just for giving her a leg up, no matter how well deserved. It’s not either of our faults that there aren’t enough top positions to go to those who earned them. Anyway, this issue should be so far down on my list of things that are problems that I should barely have time to notice.” Of course, the issue of Moriarty was as problematic for the DI as it was for them. He was required to be out in the world alone while Sherlock and Mycroft convalesced, and not even John could go help protect him because he was needed here with the brothers. Mycroft and Anthea, as well as the children, did their best to protect the greying man, but it was still a risk.

Sherlock had to be satisfied with that but still felt irritated and he didn’t know why. Fussily, he finished half his meal then, he pushed his plate away petulantly. He poked at John’s food while the soldier tried to complete his meal, John quietly tolerated Sherlock sorting all his veg into separate piles before he was allowed to consume the last of it. Mycroft and Greg were going over some of the information they’d gotten from the children but Sherlock couldn’t focus. His attention seemed scattered. He drifted over and over again until frustration overwhelmed him and he stormed off. “Sherlock?” John called.

Sherlock ignored his soldier, feeling guilty and pouty at the same time. He didn’t know what was wrong. All of a sudden he was just tired of being locked away, tired of being made to wait, tired of his transport being so reluctant to heal, tired of not knowing who their enemies actually were; he was simply _fed up_. Anxiety and annoyance welled forth without warning and Sherlock realised he was actually angry. “I’m going for a walk in the gardens,” he snapped.

The gardens were forbidden, as was everything outside. Sherlock hadn’t left the house since he’d first arrived a month ago. Suddenly everything seemed to be closing in on him and he had had enough. John was right behind him, the remainder of his meal abandoned, “Sherlock, wait.” Sherlock ignored him and kept walking, deliberately lengthening his stride to outpace John who wasn’t having any of it. Sherlock found his elbow gripped almost painfully hard as he was stopped in his tracks, a very angry doctor staring up at him, “What the fuck, Sherlock? What’s going on? What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing. I’m going for a walk, just like I said.” Sherlock couldn’t meet John’s eyes. He was furious and couldn’t explain why. He wanted out of the house and no one was going to stop him from leaving, “Let me go.”

“No. You can’t go outside. You know this. Now, tell me what’s going on!” John was adamant, so adamant that he took Sherlock’s chin in his hand and forced Sherlock to meet his very stern gaze, “What’s the matter, Sherlock? Just tell me.”

“I’m tired of being here. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of healing. I’m sick to death of visiting with Mycroft. I’m sick of waiting for crumbs of information from the children, or rather, whatever few driblets you dole out to me. I want some fresh air and a change of scenery. I want something to do. I’m just…sick of everything.”

John’s anger seemed to melt away and Sherlock found himself being soundly kissed, “My poor angel.” John pulled Sherlock close and kissed his mouth which Sherlock kept spitefully still and unyielding, but John just smiled, “My sweet darling, come here.”

John took Sherlock’s hand and gently encouraged him to move toward their bedroom. Sherlock only grew sulkier the closer they got, “I don’t need a nap.”

“Oh?” said John innocently, “You don’t want to lay down for a bit?”

“No.” _The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was lay down._

“You’re frustrated.”

“Yes.”

“You’re tired of doing the same thing day after day.”

“Yes!”

“You want to see something you haven’t seen a hundred times this last month.”

“Yes! John, for goodness sake yes!”

“Alright.”

 _What? Was John giving in? Were they going outside, if so, then why were they in their bedroom? Were they going to dress and go somewhere?_ “John?”

John closed the door to their bedroom and turned the lock. Mycroft had furnished their room with a divan for Sherlock’s benefit and it was here that John instructed Sherlock to sit. It had a high hard back on one end, and several firm cushions for Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock’s towel from his earlier shower was still spread across it and it felt rough under his behind, even through his trousers which John undid as he smiled. “Sherlock?” he teased, leaning down to kiss, “I think I know what’s going on. You feel…pent up.” Sherlock nodded, “You’re becoming bored, and with you, boredom is _stressful_.” Sherlock nodded again. “We want you to avoid stress, isn’t that right?” Sherlock hadn’t stopped nodding, especially when John went to a drawer and extracted a flash-drive, popping it into Sherlock’s laptop, “Your chest feels okay? The salve doing its job?” Again he nodded, wordless but his heart was beating faster. “Good.”

John danced. It wasn’t like the first time John had seduced Sherlock this way. This time it was gentle and teasing, but John didn’t draw it out, performing only long enough to arouse the detective fully. When the song ended Sherlock was still weak, but more than strong enough to bear the sight of John dropping to his knees right in front of him. _Beautiful amazing surprising John._ Sherlock found himself being stripped of trousers and pants, gently pushed back, and taken control of. John was hungry and determined, thorough but careful. It felt so incredible to have warm lips pressing all over his abdomen, to feel John make a trail of kisses that led to his hips and eventually to the quickly waking member that waited. John used only his mouth, licking and sucking gently. Sherlock began to breath harder as he enjoyed the warm wet swipe of John’s tongue and the perfect amount of suction to keep him on edge.

Sherlock couldn’t focus on anything else. John had made all the problems of Sherlock’s world flee to the furthest reaches of his mind palace, his transport’s need being tended to in the most perfect of ways as John began to grow more adventurous, lapping and mouthing everywhere, his clever hands now joining in as he began to caress Sherlock’s body. It was a bit difficult to ignore the tugging of the scar tissue on his chest as he panted, but John took it slow, not rushing nor allowing Sherlock to thrash around. It took an embarrassingly brief amount of time before he was softly moaning his way through an orgasm that was sweetly throbbing and so satisfying that all Sherlock could do was slump back and pant, his limbs like jelly, and his vast mind still and tranquil.

John kissed his hip, “Better?” He sounded satisfied even though Sherlock was fairly certain he hadn’t gotten off.

Sherlock considered things. He still wasn’t profoundly happy to be confined to Mycroft’s home but it wasn’t the worst place in the world and John was here. He felt pleasantly tired now, all his frustrations gone, and tensions eased. His chest hurt a bit from the exertion, even if it had just been breathing heavily, but Sherlock was entirely content, “Yes. You?”

John smiled and re-dressed Sherlock calmly, slipping the pants back up Sherlock’s legs and easing his hips up to get them on properly before doing the same with Sherlock’s trousers. “I’m good. I want to take care of you in whatever way you need. You needed a release, and I’m afraid I’d have to break anyone who tried to offer you that in my stead.”

 _Oh, John. You perfect creature_. Sherlock’s face must have reflected his adoration because John’s eyes had taken on that particular softness they got whenever he noticed Sherlock was feeling very strongly for him, “You don’t need to deny yourself for my sake.”

John leant forward and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, “I’m honestly okay. I know you’re safe and happy now, and that satisfies me. _You_ are my focus Sherlock, the rest can wait for later, I’m good.”

Sherlock smiled and felt happy enough to float, “When you say things like that I wonder how I ever think I can’t love you more. _I do_ . I feel like I am able to love you more and more every single day.” _John’s blush was very pretty and he looked almost bashful for a second which was patently ridiculous because the man had just had Sherlock’s cock down his throat not five minutes previous. He wasn’t shy!_ He always seemed amazed though that Sherlock _felt_ things for him, so to see him blush once more, Sherlock said it again, “I love you, John.” Rosy-cheeked but pleased, John leant in to kiss him again; Sherlock whispered against his lips, “I want to watch you come for me.”

John’s smile was wicked and naughty, and his objections ceased, “If you insist. Anything for you, darling.” John stood up and with a studied grace, he removed his clothing. There was only the sound of their breathing, heavy as it was, but Sherlock could _feel_ the music that John had moved to as he teased him. John kept it simple but he was so graceful, so sensual, and Sherlock was grateful he’d already orgasmed, he couldn’t have dealt with the level of arousal he would have felt if he hadn’t already experienced relief.

John’s body was so beautiful, Sherlock absolutely adored how his soldier looked. In the last month, John’s body had softened the tiniest amount. They hadn’t been working on cases, he hadn’t been dancing, he hadn’t done any of the things he normally did to keep in shape and it thrilled Sherlock. The soldier was still rocky and hard but on his abdomen, there was the faintest give in the detailed musculature that made it up. His erection was gorgeous. Sherlock was fairly sure he’d never get tired of seeing it. John’s movements were quick and sure, he was fully aroused, probably had been the entire time he’d been pleasuring Sherlock, and that made the detective feel good.

John was unabashed, eager, and fast. Sherlock only got to enjoy a minute or two of fervent stroking before John’s whole body arched forward and he managed to catch his release in his other hand. Shakily John reached for a tissue to clean himself up with while Sherlock grinned at him almost goofily, “You’re beautiful when you come.”

John blushed like a maiden once more, and cut his eyes away, “Stop.”

“Nonsense John, why should I? I love you and I think you’re gorgeous. Why shouldn’t I say so, especially when you’ve made me feel so good, and allowed me to see you thusly?” John’s cheeks only grew pinker, “You really are beautiful.”

John fell back onto the bed, covering his face with his hands as he giggled. “I feel like a child.”

“Well, you certainly don’t look like one.” _Indeed, he didn’t._ John’s deflating penis was nesting damply in his pubic hair, the flush of his skin fading slowly. Carefully Sherlock arranged himself to lay beside his soldier, allowing his fingers to trace and explore John’s always-fascinating body, “This really is much better than a facility. I’ve never enjoyed being confined.”

John was silent and still for a long time, then he rolled himself toward Sherlock, petting the detective’s arm almost anxiously, “I’ll never let that happen again, love, never. You know you can rely on me.” John seemed distressed, “I don’t like that you feel trapped but I don’t know how else to keep you safe right now. You’re vulnerable. I’m sorry…”

Sherlock stopped him with a kiss, “Don’t apologise, John, I’m the one being fretful for no reason. This is nothing like all the other times, I’m not endangering myself, and it’s not just me this time. It’s all of us, and we have no choice. I don’t love it, and honestly, I would almost kill to go for a walk, but you make it almost like being on holiday. I know I get difficult, but never once think that you are anything but the best part of my day. We have an enemy somewhere, and we can’t predict how far their influence goes. Now that sex seems to be permissible once more, I can’t say I mind being trapped in a luxurious house with a rather large bed, and a good deal of time on our hands.”

John’s grin managed to be bashful and lascivious at the same time, “Well, we can’t go at it multiple times a day for a while longer, but you seemed to be alright this time around. Working on our stamina might be a good form of physical rehabilitation.”

Sherlock felt a matching grin on his own face, “Oh? Well, one shouldn’t ignore doctor’s orders, and I have my health to consider.” They giggled and cuddled together on the bed. Sherlock felt his eyes droop, “I’m tired of sleeping all the time.”

“You need it, my love, you wake up so much healthier. Now that you’re not constantly irritated you should recover properly. Sherlock felt John move away, but only long enough for the doctor to grab the pot of salve, applying it with sure deft motions, “Sleep, my angel.” Comforted and protected once more, Sherlock obeyed.


	19. Ending at the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you're lucky enough to meet exactly the right person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for how long you needed to wait, this chapter is a tiny bit bigger than average. Thank you so much to MyFirstTheFourth for sticking this fic out with me and relentlessly chivvying me along as we both struggle to fit in writing time during our respectively busy lives. You have no idea, or more likely, you understand completely.
> 
> Seriously - thank MyFirstTheFourth. This story would have remained pending for AGES without their gracious and dedicated assistance. <3 <3 <3 Thank you, my glorious super-hero friend.

The days flew by in rapid succession, especially since John had made a rather enjoyable list of healthy exercises they could work on in the privacy of their bedchamber. Sherlock was definitely never bored anymore. If sex wasn’t happening, there were other things to keep him occupied. The children astounded the Holmes brothers with their ability to penetrate any kind of shield or layer, following clue after clue as they pieced together what had happened to their missing friend. It took some time but a compound was eventually located. They were certain there were other surviving twins still being held along with Aldwin and were crafting plans to retrieve everyone they could.

All John was told was that their Aldwin had been located alive but nearly comatose due to prolonged physical as well as chemical abuse. The children wouldn’t say more, only hinting that they knew how to deprogramme possible victims and had yet other resources waiting to heal any who had been harmed. Beyond that, the children thanked John solemnly for all that he had done for them but firmly suggested that he go on to live his new life, one that they felt he truly deserved. The children were there to shoulder the load and move forward without him. Reluctantly, John agreed. He remained with the Holmes’ brothers to finish preparing for the wedding.

Reynold was more than happy to be recruited to create the wedding outfits. He’d been thrilled to be a real part of the true preparations, and very much enjoyed having his patrons smuggled into his shop at odd hours for fittings. John and Sherlock decided on suits that they could wear during other occasions, and not just the one time. Reynold employed all his skills to design clothes that met their strange and varied needs, professing their eventual creations as the pinnacle accomplishments of his career. He’d never before been asked to create jackets that lay over handguns to obscure them, nor ones that had the capacity to carry knives of varying description, as well as other weapons and tools. John laughed but approved all the secret compartments and built in features like places to hide gloves and pockets for mobiles. There were even hidden areas to carry useful things that one might not like people accidentally coming across, say, _practical_ things like packets of lubricant and wet-wipes, points that Sherlock made much over. Reynold and John both blushed at his insistence but didn’t argue, and it was done.

The big day finally arrived. The massive hall that Mycroft had chosen was elegantly appointed and conveniently attached to a rather lovely hotel. Extravagant displays of flowers graced the walls. Pews made of wood so dark that they were nearly black had been brought in and polished until they gleamed. Every seat was taken with family, friends, and associates. With the grim exception of Mr and Mrs Holmes, smiles were plentiful. Mummy had refused to come several times, but Papa eventually had been pressured by other elder members of their family, requiring them to uphold their societal obligations and represent their ancient name regardless of their personal feelings, so for duty's sake, they arrived wearing their finest.

John annoyed both parents by giving them long warm hugs in full view of everyone, clinging for an uncomfortably long time before letting them go, ending his embrace with a firm kiss on their cheeks. Mrs Hudson had been a darling, recording the moment on her mobile and forwarding it to Sherlock who was demurely waiting in the dressing room with Mycroft. Sherlock had laughed and Mycroft had rolled his eyes even as he smiled a tiny bit because Mummy looked completely horrified. She was nowhere near as appalled as Papa, considering John had _hugged_ him with both arms and had even lain his head on his _father-in-law to be's_ shoulder while Papa struggled to keep the dismay off his face.

During an illicit peek out to view the assembly, Sherlock was certain that he had never seen such a variety of official uniforms from so many different agencies as he did right then. John’s friends had come from all over the world to witness his wedding and they represented enough military and government branches to impress Sherlock’s parents, even though they looked unhappily disturbed as well. John’s guests also included the group who had come to their flat, most notably the previously absent Bill Murray, a tall smiling ginger man who looked like he barely fit inside his uniform, so fit was he.

Apart from them, John’s only family was his sister, Harry. Sherlock had learned that John had a strained relationship with her. She had been sincere in her congratulations and had been genuinely delighted to meet Sherlock the night before the wedding, but neither sibling attempted to make more of their meeting, long since having reconciled their differences into an amicable if distant mutual cordiality. As the guests assembled, the air grew thick with anticipation, the entire room nearly quivering with readiness. The last few latecomers found themselves hurried to their seats by youthful ushers, and the hall was silenced by Anthea who also signalled the wedding music to begin. It was time for the main event.

When the moment came, Sherlock felt only a tremendous calm as he strolled down the long aisle next to his brother, heading toward Greg and John who were waiting for them. They didn’t make a show of it, merely walking calmly forward until they reached the sides of their intended. John was beaming up proudly, his suit from Reynold making him unfairly attractive yet still dangerous looking. Sherlock was suddenly filled with a torrent of emotions as he approached the man he was marrying. It shook him to his core. _This was the most significant day of his life._ Sherlock now struggled to maintain his calm. _If he let one emotion overwhelm him, he’d be swamped instantly._ John took his hand and immediately Sherlock’s internal peace was stronger than ever. _They were getting formally married today but, for all intents and purposes, they two had been one since they first exchanged glances_.

Getting married was ridiculously easy. An elderly person in a plain suit had read from a small booklet and had asked all of them a series of questions. The answers were blindingly obvious but were uttered anyway. Signatures were applied to relevant documents, and then, a great cheer rang out as the nuptials were finalised. _They were wed!_

John and Sherlock kissed a bit more enthusiastically than Mycroft and Greg, but really, it was just a matter of degrees. The wedding was being registered even as they stood there, the bureaucratic powers that Mycroft wielded making things move along at a much faster pace than might otherwise have been expected. The crowd emptied from one hall into another where a post-wedding reception was waiting; the air of anticipation not diminished in the slightest. With a great deal of casualness, people like Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper were seamlessly herded to the very centre of the room with the other guests of honour, a highly decorated soldier on each of their arms.

More robust persons, such as John’s old military friends, along with a number of Lestrade’s old mates, seemed to occupy the exterior seating heavily. Indeed, there wasn’t a single table that didn’t have one or two persons with military bearing. Bill Murray waved enthusiastically from his post beside Mrs Hudson. Mummy was even more offended when a steady stream of people approached the landlady rather than herself, congratulating Mrs Hudson on the day, even though she was the mother to neither John nor Sherlock. It didn't matter in the least, anyone who knew the pair knew that they adored her and honoured her accordingly. The deference shown by all of those attending toward the residents of 221 B Baker Street seemed to annoy Mummy further.

The room was bustling with activity as servers with trolleys and large trays moved busily about providing all with drinks and nibbles to go with the food that was already being served. John had complained that most weddings forced people to endure endless speeches in growing hunger, and he didn’t care for that. He had made a single request for the whole day. _Food first, words later._ John’s demands had been easily met, so with no ado whatsoever, the crowd fell to the feast. Happily, Sherlock’s soldier dug into a hearty plate filled with spoonfuls of an eclectic mix of all of John’s favourite things. Long discussions had gone into negotiating the meal plan, Mycroft had initially suggested a series of courses introduced one at a time throughout a long meal but John had put his foot down firmly on the matter, and it was done. Greg had approved loudly several times and was matching John bite for bite while Sherlock and Mycroft ate at a much more sedate pace though less sparingly than they might otherwise have done, had it not been their wedding meal.

There was an initial team of attendants for every section of the hall, all tending to the guests with alacrity and professionalism. When the first toast was being called for, new attendants arrived with serving carts, ostensibly to remove soiled dishes before refreshing the guest’s drinks. Instead, all of them pulled out various hand-weapons and attempted to stage mini-coups at each table. Certainly, there was enough firepower in evidence to cow the largest crowd of passive wedding goers. Unfortunately for the well-coordinated attackers, _this_ crowd was anything but meek.

Mayhem erupted. Flowers and ornate settings went flying as tables were tipped over, providing additional shielding for the less able guests, all of whom found that they were now hiding behind makeshift barriers made of the disrupted furniture. While this took place in a matter of moments, other, agiler, guests managed to move against the attackers in such ways that they were forcibly evacuated from the protective nest that had been created. All were now being quite thoroughly trounced by soldiers, secret militia, and no few police officers. One small contingent near the wedding party itself made sure to confine a particularly high-ranking member of the gathering, the very person who had allowed Mary and Sebastian the access they’d needed to harass John in the first place. Mycroft had plans for them but not until after his honeymoon.

It hadn’t been difficult to discern that their mysterious enemy would plan to hijack their wedding in order to complete their cycle of revenge. They’d counted on that very fact. Agreeing to use themselves as bait had been surprisingly easy. John’s various connections had been apprised, and Mycroft had carefully padded his guest-list with trusted associates as well as targets, as had Lestrade. Sherlock had enlisted a large portion of the homeless network to watch the comings and goings of everyone from the venue, passing their observations along to the children, some of whom coordinated with Mycroft and Greg’s people, though many walls and buffers were erected before even tentative cooperation was elicited. The children were cautious and unfortunately only willing to work with _official_ organisations on John’s behalf, otherwise, they were an autonomous force that answered to no one. Unstable, but hobbling along and attempting to do as little harm as possible.

Sherlock was distracted by John’s magnificence during it all. Instead of paying full attention to the large well-muscled man who was trying to hit him, Sherlock was almost dreamily watching John erupt into chaotic violence, subduing one person after another in quick succession. It was his own fault that he allowed himself to be herded backwards, separated from the safety of his group, all his supporters similarly engaged in fearsome fights for dominance. A sharp blow on the back of his head was all that was necessary to steal Sherlock from consciousness and part him from John’s side.

~~~

It was more than a little embarrassing to wake up restrained and in a most _ignominious_ position as well. Sherlock found himself naked and lying nearly flat on a chair-like supportive device that provided a firm pad beneath his lower back, but also restrained his head and limbs in a very peculiar fashion. His arms were spread wide and bound to thinly padded rails. Sherlock was relieved to see his wedding band still firmly on his finger, he would have been very put out to have lost it, having worn it for less than a single day. Judicious tests showed that he couldn’t move his limbs a bit. His torso had ropes crisscrossing it all the way down to his hips. Both legs were spread as wide as they would go, secured as tightly as the rest of him, and extended outward into a wide V.

 _This wasn’t so bad._ Sherlock glanced around to see if there was anything he could possibly use to help him escape. The room was entirely bare of any furnishing or ornamentation, the walls flat and white. No help there he thought, considering his situation for a minute. He’d read about devices like this. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not really, just very exposing, but it did succeed in keeping him helpless. Sherlock felt a blush briefly heat his cheeks as he thought of John’s reaction to seeing him in such a vulnerable pose, but that quickly paled as he felt a strange hand ghost over his shoulder. Cool fingertips crept their way forward and brushed across his lower lip. Sherlock knew he had a powerful enough bite to remove the offensive digit but he refrained, at least, he was unwilling to try unless it led to something more useful than a mouthful of potentially contaminated blood. He couldn’t see behind him but felt warm lips breath a single word behind his ear. “Hello.” The familiar tones froze the blood in his veins. Sherlock’s mind stuttered for a second but then focused with razor sharp clarity. _Of course, John was correct. Twins._ “James Moriarty, I presume?” he asked, his throat a bit thick from the dull pain in his head.

“ _In_ correctly, I’m afraid.” The voice was bored, “My brother was…a little flamboyant. He loved the attention he was getting. I prefer being a little more...off camera.” The cadence was different, but the sound was the same. Whoever it was sounded like James Moriarty, but most certainly did not speak the way Moriarty had done.

“And you are?” Sherlock prompted. He still couldn’t see who he was speaking with but he did manage to turn his head enough to view a metal cart with a tube of personal lubricant carelessly opened on it. He understood now exactly what was intended, and it made him feel a little sick inside.

“Richard, Richard Brooke. I’m a voice actor, a little theatre, that sort of thing. Imagine my surprise when on my twenty-first birthday, an _identical twin_ pops up out of nowhere?” Sherlock could see him now, a dead ringer for the man he knew was permanently gone. He wasn’t looking at Sherlock’s face as he moved beside him, instead, Richard was tracing his fingertips over Sherlock’s bonds in admiration, anticipation clear on his face. “The odds of us finding one another were incredible, but we did. He had such vision, such foresight. The organisations he was involved with! Unfortunately, he also had a bit of a weakness for his pet projects and had a special blind spot for his twin project. Dying for replicas like Seb and Mary? Please! We made people like them, just for _fun!_ When we worked together, oh the things we could do. We were unstoppable! Well … almost.”

Now Richard looked right into Sherlock’s eyes, his hands spreading wide over Sherlock’s bottom as he stood between his legs. Strange fingers seemed to caress his cheeks and it made Sherlock want to shudder with disgust but somehow he managed to still his reactions. “You’ve robbed me of the very best partner I could ever have wished for. My brother was brilliant. We were perfect together but now I’ll never be perfect again. I can’t get Jim back but I can have you, a bit at least. After I’m good and done tearing you open I won’t kill you, no, that’s far too merciful. I’m going to use you over and over again. Maybe I’ll even shop your arse around a bit, make some cash from the nameless cocks out in the world that would be happy to pay to be inside you for a few minutes. I want you to feel dirty, tainted, _taken_. I know you’ve never been with anyone but that limping menace so that just makes this extra special. I’m going to make you live with something you can’t bear just the way I have to live with my brother’s unchangeable death.”

The threat of rape was all that Richard Brooke got to enjoy. The door burst open and John exploded through. Brooke looked astonished at the intrusion, “You’re supposed to be dead!” he shouted over his shoulder, his hands gripping Sherlock’s hips hard, “Can’t _anyone_ follow the simplest of orders?” He didn’t manage to remain between Sherlock’s legs for long. There was a very angry and rather forceful man in a tuxedo trying to kick him in the head so Brooke’s choices were clear, move or attempt to survive the coming impact.

John was a masterful fighter; Sherlock knew this from simple observation. His lover…his _husband_ was lithe and strong, precise and deadly. He attacked Richard Brooke without hesitation, not staring at Sherlock’s restraints nor attempting in any way to reach him once he’d forced Brooke to move away. Sherlock felt warm inside. _John needed to eliminate all threats first, he was protecting Sherlock in the most expedient way. He could be untied after Brooke was dead_. Sherlock relaxed into his bonds and watched as best he could.

Brooke was fit as well and almost freakishly flexible. His style of fighting was eclectic and hard to predict allowing him to land nearly as many blows as John. But he couldn’t match the soldier for incandescent fury nor force.  Each of John’s blows visibly impacted his opponent. “Why do all of this?” John demanded. “Why go through all this trouble just to be an arsehole?”

“It’s fun. Hurting boring people is fun. Making innocent people become bad people is fun. Using people...it’s just fun.” Brooke was smirking as he fought, dancing out of John’s reach again and again. He didn’t seem to notice that John was carefully herding him, feigning attack after attack to make Brooke lose free space in which to fight. The room they were in was large but not so roomy that there was a chance of anyone getting away easily. “I know your pretty little pet likes to think he’s a sociopath but he’s really not.”

“Is that what you think?” John was grinning. “I suppose you’re right, he might not be. Sherlock is pretty crazy though, but yeah, maybe not an actual sociopath,” John stamped his feet hard and two long blades emerged from the bottom of his shoes. Brooke’s eyes grew wide but he had no time for last words, smart or otherwise. John executed a flawless kick jump that Sherlock recognised from his stage act and buried one of those blades deep under Brooke’s chin, sinking into his brain and ending him instantly, “I am, though.” Brooke’s body fell as John jerked his blade loose, the surprised expression on his face nearly the same as the one his brother had worn when he had met his fate at the same hands.

“You’re really not, John.” Sherlock didn’t bother looking at the dead man. He only had eyes for John. His husband took out a different blade and quickly sliced the ropes from Sherlock’s naked body. They found a sheet stored beneath the contraption and Sherlock quickly wrapped himself up

“Close enough.” John shrugged, once again supremely unbothered by the dead body he was responsible for. He carefully wiped the blades with the corner of Brooke’s coat before retracting them with a stomp. “At least I just killed him. I didn’t muck about with the taunting and carrying on that bad guys can’t seem to help. Look what it got him, a knife to the cranium. If he’d _really_ wanted us dead he could have just killed us instead of being such an over-enthusiastic jerk. Seriously, he really annoyed me.”

Sherlock eyed the corpse of Richard Brooke and thought of the children, all of the many lives this man and his brother had destroyed in order to entertain themselves. _He’d gotten off far too easily_. Regret was fleeting however as Sherlock looked at his husband, “I’m cold.”

“Well, let’s warm you right up.” John’s wink was as filthy as a wink could possibly get. Sherlock found himself blushing bashfully at his husband’s less than subtle leer. It was still a surprise that John found him so desirable and how unabashed the soldier was about letting Sherlock know that fact. “I have no idea what they did with your clothes. I hope we find them or Reynold is never going to let us forget we lost his wedding suit. Thank goodness he didn’t take your ring off or I’d have had a harder time tracking you.” _The locator chips built into each ring had been a rigorously tested gift from the children_.

They found Sherlock’s clothes in a room down the hallway. Sherlock sighed when he realised that they hadn’t even left the building. There was also a wheelchair, explaining how Mr Brooke managed to get Sherlock away so quickly. “I suppose we’d better let Mycroft and Lestrade know that I’m alright. Someone will have to deal with the body too, we can’t just leave him there to decompose.”

“His name is Greg, Sherlock. Please try to remember your brother-in-law’s name. Don’t worry about the mess. The children will handle all of that, my love, we’re supposed to be celebrating our wedding. We’ve got guests.”

“Still?” Now Sherlock was aggravated. _It was his wedding day. He’d just gotten kidnapped and very nearly been defiled. He wasn’t prepared to deal with a bunch of people he’d already at least glimpsed that day, nor did he have the stomach to deal with his parents as well as their steadfast disapproval and bigotry.They had food and alcohol at the reception, wasn’t that enough?_

“Yes, I told everyone to stay right there until I got back, but I don’t want to go back so much now. Hmm…” John took out his mobile and tapped in a number, “Hey, bro. I’ve gotten my husband back but it’s a bit sticky here. We’re in the hotel.” John listened, “Yes, the one we booked into for tonight. I didn’t get a name.”

“Richard Brooke.”

“He says _Richard Brooke_ .” John listened again, “I’ve already lost interest, Mycroft. I’ve wasted weeks now worrying about all of this. Look, just don’t let my people drink the bar dry and let everyone know we’re off to start our honeymoon, alright?” John listened again, “I don’t care, I want to fuck your brother.” John laughed at the gagging sounds he could hear, “Well, what did you expect me to say? I’ve just gotten married. Don’t you want to give _your_ new husband a ride around the marital bed too?”

The call ended abruptly but John just tucked it away as if he hadn’t expected anything different. With a sly grin, he said, “So, your room or mine?” Sherlock looked down at his husband laughing at his silly joke. John grinned even more, “Yeah, let’s not. Home to Baker Street, then. The children have had it under their eye, it’s as safe a place as we can be right now. Let’s go, my love.”

John explained the measures the children had taken while Sherlock dressed so they could leave the hotel. The children had set up cameras in all directions surrounding their flat as well as the venue and had even installed some in all the underground sewers and access tunnels, just in case something happened to their rings. “It was really just a matter of them telling me to go left or right or whatever. I was practically on your heels for most of it, not that you’d gone very far! Brooke certainly got you undressed and tied up in a hurry. I don’t even _want_ to imagine how he got so good at that!”

John didn’t mention the obvious, that Richard Brooke’s intention had been to cause unending intimacy problems for Sherlock, “What did he say to you?” Sherlock didn’t want to speak of it right then, tilting his head pointedly towards the long dark car that magically appeared just as they reached the kerb. _Thank you, Mycroft_. “Fine.” John sounded gruff but didn’t press further, instead opting to cuddle Sherlock next to him as best he could, considering the inconvenient but necessary seatbelts that were involved. John managed by dint of belting Sherlock directly in the middle and pressing their sides together as closely as possible.

Coming home to 221 B Baker Street made both of them feel lighter of heart the second the familiar black door came into view. Courteously, John assisted Sherlock from the vehicle, and despite the fact that it wasn’t a cab, still pressed fare and a tip into the startled driver’s hand. Ignoring the woman immediately after, John unlocked the door and led Sherlock into their building and up the stairs without further delay.

The building was quiet. Mrs Hudson was still at their reception, and it was likely that one of Mycroft’s people would discreetly arrange a nice hotel room somewhere for her to stay for the night. The minute all the doors were secured, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his husband, “He wanted to take me, to use me himself and then let others have a go. He wanted to ruin what we have between us in a way he knew I would never be able to get over. You arrived just as he was beginning.” Sherlock promised that one day he’d tell John every single detail but not tonight. “You saved me, John. I knew you would. You’re amazing.”

They kissed as John walked Sherlock backwards through their flat until they got to the bedroom. It smelled of clean laundry and rose petals, both men broke off their kiss to stare at their bed, bemused by the dried petals that covered it end to end. They looked at one another. “Mrs Hudson,” they said in unison before erupting into laughter. The sheets were obviously fresh, crisp and flat beneath their well-fluffed duvet.

“This is very romantic, my perfect love, but honestly, I’m dying for a hot cup of tea.”John looked apologetically at Sherlock, “Killing gives me dry-mouth.”

Sherlock felt the smile that spread across his face as deeply as he felt the way his chest expanded and contracted as he laughed. “We can’t have that, my darling. Tea it is.”

Sherlock made it, gauging the temperature of the water, and steeping each cup an exact amount of time before he stirred in precisely the amount of cream and sugar that John preferred. John was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching the process with the same kind of silly smile that Sherlock knew he still wore as well. When Sherlock presented the mug, he did so with a flourish, embellishing the act with a tender kiss on John’s cheek, “Your tea.”

“Why thank you, sweetheart, you really _are_ an angel.” John’s expression was more than slightly fatuous but Sherlock found that he didn’t mind a bit. Sherlock sat at the table but John opted to remain leaning against the counter, one hand holding Sherlock’s hand, the other managing his cup. The silence was companionable and pleasant but the moment they were done, John deposited their cups into the sink before seating himself onto Sherlock’s lap. “I want to fuck,” he declared bluntly, “Right here, on this chair, in this kitchen that we’re going to share for the next several years.”

“Unless we move someplace else for some reason.” Sherlock teased.

“The chair can come with us. It can be our naughty fuck-chair.” John gave him a searing kiss, “I like sitting on you like this, that’s how I want to do it. Look,” he pulled a small clear bottle out of a nearby drawer, “I have lube!”

“Aren’t you _prepared,_ ” murmured Sherlock. “This is a _very_ good idea.”

“I know, gorgeous.” John kissed him again, “Off with your clothes, Sherlock, I want your cock inside me as soon as possible.”

Sherlock had heard of people getting nosebleeds from inhaling too rapidly but he had dismissed it as mere hearsay until he nearly did it to himself the second John spoke. He tasted the coppery tang of blood in the back of his throat as his mind exulted in the thought. _John wanted to be penetrated!_ Sherlock tried to say something agreeable but instead, he growled as he began to grope John with over-eager inelegance. For his entire life, Sherlock had been perfectly willing to allow his body to be untouched, to refuse intimacy with anyone, not even himself, but thanks to John, he knew that his past ideals were no longer workable. He needed to experience this. He needed to be inside of John, to feel his hardened flesh being gripped by John’s. He wanted to know what it was like to flow into John, to put part of himself within his lover, to mark him and claim him as he had been claimed. He managed a single word, “Please.”

Sherlock’s well-trained and well-used brain stored massive amounts of perfectly organised data. At will, he could recall any of it, thanks to his mind palace, and use any of it on demand. At this particular moment, it was a brain shaped sponge filled with nothing more than the urge to fuck. Sherlock had no idea where his wedding clothes went. He had no recollection of stripping himself nor how John was also miraculously naked. His beautiful soldier was standing in front of him, his feet flat on the floor, his erection poking Sherlock in the sternum, “Use this.” John thrust the opened bottle of lubricant at him, “Make yourself wet.”

John’s hand was obscured behind himself, his arm obviously moving. Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed several times as he sat there, a small puddle of lubricant warming in the palm of his hand while he stared mutely at John. “What?”

“Your cock, Sherlock. Put the lubricant on your cock.” Sherlock blinked and finally understood. He looked down. His penis was nearly purple with blood, the head redder than he’d ever seen it, his bollocks fat and full looking. Sherlock continued blinking, muzzily trying to organise his thoughts. _Had John told him to do something?_ “Your hand, my love, put the lubricant on your cock...with your hand.” _Ah, yes._ Obediently, Sherlock pressed his slick palm against the heat of his penis and nearly hissed. _It was so sensitive._ The head of it bumped between John’s thighs and Sherlock heard John curse, “Fuck it.”

John took control of Sherlock’s hand, rubbing it up and down Sherlock’s penis until it glistened everywhere then used his own hand to steady it. As John began to bear down, Sherlock managed to protest, “Too soon.” _The heat was glorious. The tightness was magnificent. They hadn’t prepared John at all. This was awful!_

“Don’t care.” John groaned the words out and Sherlock could hear notes of pain within the pleasure, “Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care. I _need_ you inside me. You’re so hard. I want you so very much, I can’t wait. I need your come in me.”

Sherlock knew this had to hurt John terribly but his soldier wasn’t stopping, though he wasn’t exactly speeding things along. Millimetre by millimetre, John pushed himself down, twitching his hips to rotate them a minuscule amount, working to relax his body by using Sherlock’s. Sherlock felt like he was on the verge of orgasm the entire time, his eyes wide and unblinking as he froze in position, terrified to move lest he humiliate himself by coming mere minutes into their first conjugal night together. John’s bitten back whimpers and almost silent cries were shocking, but he obviously had no intention whatsoever of stopping until he’d reached his goal. When the rim of John’s arsehole finally swallowed the tip of Sherlock’s cockhead fully, they both groaned loudly. Sherlock pressed his forehead to John’s chest at last, his arms finally relaxing their stricture enough for him to rest his hands on John’s thighs, feeling the shifting muscles beneath his skin as the soldier kept moving, “You’re incredible.”

“You haven’t seen _anything_ yet,” promised John, tipping Sherlock’s head back to kiss him hungrily, “I’m going to feel you for days, and I’m going to make certain that you feel me too.” John began reminding Sherlock exactly how they’d first met, the small circle of his hips becoming wider, more deliberate. John’s legs were powerful, never quivering with fatigue or being anything but strong and certain as he began to swirl his hips even as he dropped himself down onto Sherlock’s cock with greater speed and depth.

Far more quickly than Sherlock thought was advisable, John had managed to work Sherlock’s entire cock into his arse, drawing his knees up and resting his heels close to Sherlock’s bum in order to press his hole down as far as he could get it. Sherlock could feel John’s heartbeat throbbing all around his shaft. He had never felt anything so magnificent, “I’m going to fuck you so much, Sherlock, I’m going to do everything I can think of to you. I’m going to show you how to put your perfect cock in me in so many different positions, and you’re going to find out just how flexible I can be. You’re going to master in sex, I promise. You’re going to fill me with so much come, and I can’t wait until I am absolutely _ruined_ by you.”

Sherlock still couldn’t speak but a huff of air exploded from his lungs as his hips torqued upward instinctively, pushing John up, helplessly impaled and incapable of moving away. “Oh, god, yes.” John writhed against Sherlock’s body, welcoming him, teasing him. All of his movements were sinuous as well as deliberate, and the folded up position he’d gotten himself into didn’t seem to be troubling the sandy-haired man a bit. Sherlock was overwhelmed. John was so beautiful, his hard muscles working in magnificent synchronicity to create a rolling twist that caused Sherlock to grunt out some rather primal but heartfelt noises. John was gripping Sherlock’s shoulder with one hand and the back of the chair with the other, using any leverage he could get in order to move harder and faster.

Sherlock couldn’t bear it any longer. Setting his feet firmly and spreading his fingers over the globes of John’s arse, Sherlock stood, taking John with him. John gasped, but grinned and didn’t struggle as Sherlock stepped closer to their counter. John used his now free hand to grip the sturdy edge, surprising Sherlock further by hooking one leg up over Sherlock’s shoulder and allowing his other foot to just barely reach the floor. Automatically, Sherlock crouched a little lower, allowing John to steady himself as best he could in this new configuration.

Their new position allowed Sherlock to swing his hips freely, controlling the speed and depth of his thrusts cautiously until he felt confident enough to begin fucking John in earnest instead of just being fucked by John. His husband moaned appreciatively, rolling his hips a tiny amount to encourage Sherlock to increase the force behind each push. Gradually they moved in faster synchronicity. Sherlock was clutching both John’s leg and hip, desperate to bring his new spouse to orgasm before he emptied himself.

It was a close call.

Sherlock tentatively twisted his hips the way John had done and was rewarded with a guttural grunt and a spasmodic squeeze of John’s hand. Encouraged, he did it again. “More, love, it's so good, hard Sherlock. Fuck me as hard as you can.” That’s all he needed to hear. It was glorious to watch how John’s body reacted to each impact, his arse jiggling just a tiny amount, his torso bending at an odd angle as John tried to see them join over and over again. The weight of John’s leg against Sherlock’s torso somehow made Sherlock acutely aware of how trusting his husband was being with him. John was entirely vulnerable right now, and Sherlock was humbled by the privilege he was being gifted with. “I’ll only ever be with you, John.”

“Sherlock!” John came. His body bucked and sagged but Sherlock managed to hold him close, allowing John’s leg to slip down as he staggered backwards, collapsing back into the chair as John continued to groan, his ejaculate spurting onto Sherlock’s flat belly. A handful of short thrusts later, Sherlock followed his husband into bliss, holding John tightly to his chest as he emptied himself deep within. John collapsed gently against Sherlock, his head lolling weakly against Sherlock’s shoulder as he gasped and struggled to catch his breath. He sucked in a lungful of air between words but managed to croak, “That was the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

Sherlock managed to smile but he was so tired now. His thighs burned a bit from how low he needed to crouch and the satisfying but exhausting repetitive motion of thrusting into John, but it had been so worth it. _So what if they both wobbled around for the next few days? His legs would just have to grow stronger because he was going to fuck John Watson hard every single day for the rest of their lives if they could manage it._ His fingers drifted along John’s back and sides, enjoying how slick with sweat his soldier had become. “We need to wash,” he said gently. Sherlock found himself touching John’s arse, gingerly feeling where their bodies were still joined. As he softened, his cock slowly retracted itself from John allowing a rather sticky mess to begin escaping.

John giggled and Sherlock loved him fiercely, “Yeah, before I stain the floor.”

“It’s had worse on it.” Sherlock’s many experiments had caused their kitchen to sustain every kind of fluid and mess imaginable. John giggled again. “Come on, husband mine, let’s go wash up and get to bed.”He led his new spouse toward their bathroom.

“I’m not sleeping under rose petals.” John eyed the bed. They’d forgotten about Mrs Hudson’s attempt to make their marital bed romantic.

“We’ll shake them off.” Sherlock promised, “I’m sure Mrs Hudson meant well.” John yawned hugely then grinned allowing Sherlock to assist him into their shower since his legs were wobblier than he’d realised. Sherlock felt inordinately proud of that fact. They washed off quickly but thoroughly before stumbling back to their room naked. Still damp, they carefully lifted their duvet and managed to funnel the drying petals into an empty bin. John kept a handful on the bureau to dry as a keepsake; a sentimental gesture that touched Sherlock far more than he ever could have imagined. Exhausted and tremendously happy, the newlyweds fell fast asleep in each other’s arms.

The next morning, Sherlock woke alone. His heart raced because he couldn’t feel any warmth on John’s side of the bed. _Where was his husband? Had something happened in the night?_ He climbed out of bed, leaving the room as he pulled on his robe. _Where was John?_

There were distinctive odors in the air. Following his nose, Sherlock found his husband in the kitchen, “Shoot, you woke up earlier than I anticipated. I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed.” John looked regretfully at the food he was plating up, “I called your parent’s chef last week.”

Sherlock felt his heart give a great sentiment filled throb and then he was hugging John tightly. On two plates were short stacks of pancakes, all cooked to the perfect shade of brown, soft, moist, and smelling of vanilla and eggs. There were crisp slices of bacon on one side, and pats of butter melting down over all of it. “Project Pancake.”

“It isn’t so much of an experiment when you have the recipe to follow.” John held up his mobile and showed Sherlock the image of the recipe that had been forwarded to him, “I did manage to find the kind of syrup you like, though. It’s amazing what some of the corner stores have available at six in the morning.”

 _Had John dressed and gone out specifically to make a special breakfast for Sherlock?_ “It smells exactly the way I remember it.” John cut off a small piece and held it up for Sherlock to consume. The moment it hit his tongue, Sherlock closed his eyes and basked in the flood of memories from the happier parts of his childhood, “It’s perfect, John.” He kissed his husband with syrup sticky lips, “Just like you, utterly perfect.”

A blush blossomed on John’s cheeks but his smile was as bright as his eyes. This was everything Sherlock could ever have hoped for, had he any idea that such things could possibly be his. He sat at the table using the very same chair they’d used the night before and ate up every bite that John had made for him while his husband enjoyed his own portions. Together, they sipped piping hot tea and let the minutes trickle on by. It was quiet, soothing, and filled with love, and once again, Sherlock was humbled by the vastness of John’s love for him. Reaching out, he took the soldier’s hand in his, “Spending forever with you will be amazing.” John replied with a firm squeeze to the hand holding his. They didn’t need to say more. Today was their first morning together as husbands, the first of many things they would do together as husbands. They were partners, fulfilling each other’s needs in every conceivable way, and Sherlock had every intention of doing nothing but making John the happiest of men for as long as he could manage. They had years in front of them to learn everything there was to know, to share all their secrets, to make memories, to live. Sherlock still had so many questions and he knew that John would never deny him answers. They had time.

They had eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the devoted followers of this fic, new as well as those tenacious few who have been hanging about since the beginning of this, I give you all my thanks. I hope to have rewarded your patience. I have many more stories pending but this time I plan to do a lot more writing before I begin posting, so stay tuned, so much more will be coming your way.
> 
> d

**Author's Note:**

> Go ahead, tell me what you think


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